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BE  AUCIIAMPE ; 

OK. 

THE  KENTUCKY   TRAGEDY. 

A  SEQUEL  TO  CHAKLEMONT. 
BY  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PARTISAN,"  "MELLICHAMPE,"   "KATHARINE  w ALIGN," 

"THE   FORAYERS,"   "THE  SCOUT,1     "WOODCRAFT,"   "GUV  RIVERS,"  ETC. 


"  Maid  of  LuJan,"  said  FinjraJ,  "white-handed  daughter  of  Grief  !  a  cloud, 
marked  with  streaks  of  fire,  is  rolled  along  thy  soul.  Look  not  to  timt  dark- 
robed  moon;  look  not  to  those  mereors  of  Heaven.  My  gleaming  steel  is 
around  thee,  the  terror  of  thy  foes." 

"  I  rose,  like  a  stalking1  ghost.  I  pierced  the  side  of  Corman-trunas.  Nor 
did  Forma  iiragiU  escape.  She  rolled  her  white  bosom  in  blood.  Why, 
then,  daughter  of  heroes,  didst  thou  wake  my  rage/"— OSSIAN.  Cath.  Loda. 


to  and  JRe&iged  Cdiiion, 


DONOHUE,  HENNEBERRY&  CO, 

407-425  DEARBORN  STREET 


DONOHUE  &  HENNEBERRY, 

PRINTERS  AND  BINDKRS, 


In  compliance  with  current  copyright 

law,  U.  C.  Library  Bindery  produced 

this  replacement  volume  on  paper 

that  meets  ANSI  Standard  Z39.48- 

1 984  to  replace  the  irreparably 

deteriorated  original 

2001 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  BEAUCHAMPE  ;  or  the  Kentucky  Tragedy,"  is  the  sequel 
to  the  story  of  "  Charlcmont."  The  story  supposes  some 
little  interval  of  time  between  its  opening,  and  the  close  of 
its  predecessor.  The  connection  between  the  two  is  suffi 
ciently  intimate,  though  the  sequel  introduces  us  to  new 
persons  —  the  hero  among  them  —  who  do  not  figure  in  the 
first  publication.  I  do  not  know  that  anything  farther  n^cd 
be  added  by  way  of  explanation.  In  regard  to  moral  and 
social  characteristics,  the  preface  to  "  Charlciuont"  will 
suffice.  A  few  words,  perhaps,  in  regard  to  the  materiel, 
may  not  be  amiss  in  the  present  connection,  to  prevent  inis- 
ta*ces,  and  savo  the  critic  from  that  error,  which  he  occa 
sionally  makes,  of  substituting  his  own  point  of  view  for  that 
of  the  author  —  an  error  which  usually  results  in  a  mere  game 
or  cross  purposes  between  the  parties,  which  is  profitable 
to  neither.  The  reader  may  find  or  fancy  some  occasional 
difterences  of  fact  and  inference,  date,  plac«,  and  period, 
between  this  and  other  narratives  relating  to  Beauchampe, 
and  the  famous  Kentucky  tragedy  of  which  he  was  the  un 
happy  hero.  But,  as  a  man  of  sagacity,  he  will  naturally 
discard  all  bias  derived  from  any  previous  reading,  in 


8  ADVERTISEMENT. 

deference  to  that  which  is  now  submitted  him.  Ours,  as 
the  language  of  the  quack  advertisements,  is  the  only  gen 
nine  article.  We  alone  hare  gone  to  the  fountain  head  for 
our  materials.  We  have  good  authority  for  all  that  is  here 
given.  We  can  place  our  hand  on  the  record  at  any  mo 
ment,  and  we  defy  all  skepticism.  Newspapers  are  lying 
things  at  best  —  ihey  have  told  sundry  fibs  on  this  very 
subject.  Pamphlets  —  and  our  melancholy  history  has  in 
duced  several  —  are  scarcely  better  as  authorities;  —  even 
the  dusty  files  of  the  court  should  make  nothing  against  the 
truth  of  our  statements  where  they  happen  to  differ.  At 
all  events,  the  good  reader  may  be  assured  that  our  disa 
greements  are  not  substantial.  They  affect  none  of  the 
vital  truths  of  the  narrative.  We  agree  in  all  wholesome 
aspects.  Our  morals  are  the  same  —  our  results  very  near 
ly  so  ;  and  if  we  have  made  a  longer  story  of  the  matter 
than  they  have  done,  it  only  proves  that  we  had  so  muca 
more  to  say.  We  need  say  no  more  by  way  of  preparative, 
and  we  forbear  saying  anything  by  way  of  provocative. 
Fall  to  and  welcome !  The  fare  is  solid  enough,  and,  as 
for  the  spices  and  the  dressing — say  nothing  in  disparage 
ment  of  these,  if  you  would  not  incur  the  maledictions  of 
the  cook.  Wre  Anglicise  in  this  sentence  a  homely  proverb, 
which  would  scarcely  tell  so  well  in  the  original. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   RUINED    HAMLET. 

TIME  docs  not  move  with  the  less  rapidity  because  his 
progress  is  so  insensible.  His  wings  may  be  compared  to 
those  of  the  owl  and  other  birds  who  fly  by  night.  Their 
feathers  are  fined  off  to  such  exquisitely-delicate  points, 
that  they  steal  silently  through  the  air,  as  swiftly  as  stealth 
ily,  and  strike  their  object  without  alarming  it.  So  with 
that  "  subtle  thief"  whom  men  personify  as  Time.  He 
moves  like  the  pestilence,  without  beat  of  drum,  without 
pomp  of  banners,  with  no  pageantry  of  state  or  terror 
which  might  warn  the  victim  to  prepare  his  defences.  He 
fans  us  to  sleep  as  the  fabled  vampire,  with  dark  wing 
slowly  waving  over  our  slumbers,  while  his  sharp  tooth  is 
penetrating  the  vital  places  in  our  bosoms. 

Five  years  have  elapsed  since  the  period  of  those  melan 
choly  events,  which  furnished  us  with  the  materials  for  our 
village-chronicle  of  "  Charlemont."  The  reader  of  that 
legend  will  not  require  that  we  should  remind  him  of  its 
sorrowful  details.  Enough  that  we  tell  him  that  its  inhab 
Hants  are  all  dispersed  —  scattered  variously  in  remote  re 
gions —  some  silent  in  the  grave — all  changed;  all  under 
going  change  ;  and  that  the  village  itself  is  a  ruin  !  Tho 

1* 

i  r*  f*  *~»  **  ^ 
L boo On 


10 

vicissitudes  of  life  have  told  in  various  ways  upon  all  the 
parties  to  our  former  story.  Some  of  them  have  been  kept 
wretched  ;  others,  made  so  ;  while  others  again,  have  held 
a  sensible  progress  —  onward,  upward  —  to  prosperity  and 
honorable  distinction.  Perhaps,  we  shall  gather  something 
more  definite  on  this  head  from  the  discourse  of  the  two 
travellers,  whom  we  behold  alighting  from  their  horses,  and 
seating  themselves  upon  one  of  the  hills  by  which  the  val 
ley  of  Charlemont  is  overlooked. 

Here,  on  this  very  spot,  more  than  five  years  before,  two 
other  travellers  had  paused  to  survey  the  natural  beauties 
of  tlie  village,  and  to  feast  their  eyes  upon  the  rural  aspect 
of  its  innocent  society.  At  that  period,  it  was  compara 
tively  innocent.  There  was  peace  within  its  borders,  and 
Plenty  sat  beside  its  winter  fires,  fully  solaced  by  Content. 
But  the  gaze  of  those  two  travellers  brought  blight  upon 
several  of  its  sweetest  homes.  One  of  the  two.  a  good  old 
man,  went  on  his  way,  dreaming  with  delight  upon  the 
simple  beauties  and  felicities  of  the  little  hamlet.  He  little 
dreamed  that  the  other,  his  favorite  nephew,  had  surveyed 
it  with  far  less  loving,  yet  more  rapacious  eyes — that  he 
would  steal  back,  alone,  in  disguise,  and  penetrate  the  little 
sanctuary  of  peace,  hiding  among  its  flowers,  as  a  serpent, 
arid  leaving  taint  in  the  place  of  innocence.  The  reptile's 
mission  was  successful.  The  home  was  polluted,  the  hope 
destroyed,  and  the  little  village  was  no  longer  the  abode  of 
peace  or  happiness.  Now  we  see  that  it  is  in  ruins — that 
it  is  deserted  of  its  people  —  that  its  old  familiar  homes  c*re 
solitary,  and  sinking  fast  into  decay.  .We  may  not  say  that 
all  this  melancholy  change  was  the  fruit  of  this  serpent's 
*-isit,  but  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  ?  Who  shall  meas 
ure  the  suffering  and  loss  to  a  little  rustic  hamlet  from  the 
shame  and  sorrow  which  defile  and  degrade  one  of  its 
favorite  families.  The  shadow  upon  one  sweet  cottage- 
home  casts  a  darkening  atmosphere,  in  some  degree  over 
all  around  it,  and  lessens  the  charm  which  was  once  enjoyod 


THE    RUINED    HAMLET.  11 

by  all  iii  common,  and  takes  from  the  beauty  of  the  general 
landscape.  "Where  the  resources  of  society  are  drawn  from 
natural  and  simple  causes,  we  all  share  in  the  loss  which 
proves  fatal  only  to  the  single  individual. 

But,  in  place  of  the  two  former  travellers,  whose  inaus 
picious  gaze  was  thus  full  of  mischief  to  the  universal  beau 
ties  of  Charlcmont,  we  see  two  very  different  persons.  They 
occupy  the  same  point  of  survey  ;  they  both  gaze  from  the 
same  eminence  which  erewhile  unfolded  the  charm  of  a 
most  lovely  landscape.-  One  of  these  strangers,  as  in  the 
former  instance,  is  a  tall,  finely-built,  noble-looking  old 
gentleman,  whose  white  head  declares  him  to  be  fast  ap 
proaching  the  ordinary  limits  of  the  natural  life.  He  was 
between  sixty  and  seventy  years  of  age,  though  you  would 
arrive  at  this  conclusion  chiefly  from  the  snowy  whiteness 
of  his  hair,  and  the  serene  benevolence  of  his  countenance, 
showing  tlitit  the  more  violent  passions  were  now  wholly 
overcome,  and  not  from  any  appearance  of  decrepitude. 
On  the  contrary,  his  bearing  is  that  of  a  man  still  vigorous 
in  bone  and  muscle.  lie  carries  himself  erectly,  alights 
promptly  from  his  steed,  with  the  freedom  and  ease  of  the 
practised  hunter,  and  there  is  still,  in  his  movement,  tho 
evidence  of  very  considerable  physical  power,  if  not  of  en 
ergy.  His  eye  is  still  of  a  bright  and  earnest  blue ;  his 
cheeks  are  but  little  wrinkled,  nowhere  much  seared  by 
either  suffering  or  time,  and  the  ruddy  hue  which  clothes 
them  declare  equally  for  health  and  vigor. 

His  companion  is  a  young  man  who  might  be  twenty-five 
or  thereabouts.  In  respect  to  frame,  size,  bearing,  he  might 
be  the  son  of  the  former.  He  is  of  noble  figure  and  stat- 
-ure,  of  firm,  dignified,  and  easy  carriage,  and  wears  a  fine, 
frank  expression  of  countenance.  The  face,  though  with 
out  one  feature  like  that  of  the  senior,  is  also  quite  a  hand 
some  one,  marked  with  great  serenity,  though  of  a  gravity 
which  seemed  to  declare  the  presence  of  emotions  of  a 
nature  much  more  serious  than  any  of  those  which  are 


12  BKAUCHAMPK. 

caused  by  thought  and  study.  Though  full  of  intelligence 
and  a  fine  spirit,  the  expression  is  shadowed  by  a  look  of 
Badness  approaching  to  melancholy.  There  is  a  fixedness 
and  depth  in  his  eyes — an  intensity  of  gaze  —  which  pene 
trates  you  with  a  sense  of  suffering  and  mystery ;  suffering 
which  has  been  overcome,  but  which  has  left  its  traces,  as, 
the  fire  which  has  been  extinguished,  yet  leaves  the  scorch 
ing  proofs  of  its  wing  upon  the  roof  and  sides  of  the  bright 
dwelling  over  which  it  once  has  swept.  His  mouth,  in  its 
rather  close  compression,  confirms  the  story  of  his  eyes, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  well-cut  lips  is  somewhat  impaired 
by  the  sternness  resulting  from  this  additional  evidence  of 
trial,  and  vexing  passions.  The  mystery  which  you  see 
written  in  the  young  man's  visage  is  one  that  invites  to  the 
study  of  that  character,  which  a  single  glance  persuades 
you  must  be  worthy  of  examination.  His  movements  are 
deliberate,  his  voice  is  low  in  tone,  quiet,  gentle,  musical, 
yet  capable  of  great  and  sonorous  utterance.  There  is  no 
sign  of  feebleness  or  indecision  of  purpose  in  the  move 
ments  which  are  yet  slow.  On  the  contrary,  every  step 
which  he  takes  is  significant  of  strength  —  of  powers  that 
only  wait  the  proper  motive,  or  the  sufficient  provocation, 
to  declare  themselves  with  commanding,  and  even  startling 
effect.  As  he  stands  awhile,  after  fastening  the  two  horses 
in  the  thicket,  and  leaning  slightly  forward,  gazes  down 
intently  upon  the  valley  slope,  dotted  with  the  decaying 
cottages,  you  read  in  his  look  and  action  a  further  secret 
in  which  you  conjecture  a  something,  which  links  the  fate 
of  the  lonely  hamlet  with  his  own  fortunes,  and  confirms, 
with  a  deeper  meaning,  the  sorrowful  thought,  and  sadden 
ing  memories,  which  loom  out,  darkly  bright,  in  all  the 
lines  of  his  strongly-expressive  countenance. 

The  old  man  is  already  seated  upon  the  cliff  and  looking 
forth  in  silence.  The  young  one  joins  him  with  quiet  move 
ment,  and  takes  his  seat  beside  him.  And  thus  they  sat 
together,  for  some  time,  without  speaking.  It  would  seem 


THE    RUINED    HAMLET.  13 

as  if  they  enjoyed  a  communion  of  thought  and  sympathy 
-^-that  neither  needed  to  speak  of  reminiscences  which  were 
cherished  in  equal  degree  by  both,  and  that,  whatever 
the  cause  of  melancholy  reflection,  it  was  shared  between 
them. 

A  considerable  interval  of  time,  speaking  comparatively, 
wa:  thus  yielded  up  in  silence,  to  sad  if  not  bitter  thought. 
At  length  the  old  man  said  : — 

"  We  are  here,  again,  William.  It  is  the  same,  yet  not 
the  same.  Nature  is  ever  young.  Trees,  rocks,  hills,  val 
leys —  these  rarely  change.  Here,  without  a  single  com 
panion,  as  of  old!  yet  how  many  of  our  old  companions  are 
about  us.  I  feel  the  former  life,  if  not  the  ancient  feelings. 
Yet  what  a  change.  And  five  years  have  done  it  all ! 
What  a  brief  period  !  Yet,  what  an  eternity !" 

The  other  did  not  immediately  answer.  When  he  did,  he 
said  musingly : — 

"  I  see  no  sign  of  human  life.  I  doubt  if  there  be  a 
single  inhabitant  left." 

"  Indeed,  it  looks  as  if  there  were  none.  How  strange 
is  it,  that,  feeling  with  the  place  as  we  both  did,  and  do,  we 
should  have  so  entirely  forborne  to  keep  up  any  communi 
cation  with  it.  We  know  not  a  syllable  of  the  occasion  of 
these  changes.  How  strange  that  they  should  have  been 
so  altered  !  Can  there  have  been  any  epidemic  here  ?  I 
have  heard  of  none.  The  village  was  always  healthy. 
The  place  is  sweet  and  beautiful.  The  people  were  mostly 
in  good  circumstances,  had  few  wants  which  they  could  not 
satisfy,  and  seemed  happy  enough  and  contented  enough  in 
these  abodes.  What  was  the  sad  necessity,  what  the  vex 
ing  appetite  which  prompted  their  abandonment.  Shall  we 
descend  into  the  valley  and  inquire  further  ?  It  may  be 
that  we  shall  find  some  lingering  occupant  in  some  one  of 
the  farther  cottages.  These  are  evidently  abandoned. 
What  say  you,  William  ?  Shall  we  feel  our  way  once  more 
along  the  old  familiar  places  ?" 


14  HEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Ah  !  sir,  with  what  reason  ?  Shall  we  behold  anything 
more  grateful  in  a  nearer  approach.  Here,  it  seems  to  me, 
we  can  behold  enough  for  melancholy  thought ;  and  none 
other  can  we  borrow  from  the  associations  with  this  place. 
You  see  yonder  the  ruins  of  my  father's  house.  It  has 
evidently  been  destroyed  by  fire  —  the  work,  no  doubt,  of 
come  passing  incendiary.  Yet,  among  these  ruins,  I  first 
flrew  the  breath  of  life;  there,  I  first  enjoyed  delicious 
hopes,  which  the  same  house  saw  blasted.  My  father  and 
mother  are  wanderers  in  the  far  south,  and  —  I  had  aban 
doned  them.  I  would  see  no  more.  I  wonder  at  the 
strange  anxiety  which  has  prompted  me  to  seek  thus  much  ; 
to  come  hither,  after  so  long  an  interval,  merely  to  behold 
a  ruin  !  I  might  have  known  that  I  should  gain  nothing 
from  such  a  survey,  but  the  resurrection  of  mocking  dreams, 
and  delusive  fancies,  and  foolish  hopes — upon  which,  as 
upon  this  little  hamlet — we  may  write  nothing  but  the  one 
Tord  —  ruin !" 

A  big  tear  stood  in  the  young  man's  eye — a  single  drop 
--the  outburst  of  emotions  that  even  manhood,  filled  with 
noble  ardor,  and  moved  by  great  energies,  could  not  utterly 
repress.  And  again  a  deep  silence,  for  a  while,  succeeded 
to  this  brief  dialogue.  At  length,  the  old  man  laughed 
with  a  subdued  chuckle  —  mixed  mirth  and  melancholy. 

"  Strange,  William,  that  the  hovjel  should  so  frequently 
outlast  the  stately  hall  and  tower.  Such  is  the  process  by 
which  Time  mocks  at  pride.  Look,  where  my  old  school 
hci,sc  stands  as  it  did  five  years  ago.  There  you  see  the 
roof,  almost  black  with  age,  glooming  out  beneath  the  she! 
t2r  of  green  trees.  My  favorite  oaks,  William,  still  stride 
about,  like  ancient  patriarchs,  spreading  great  arms  as  in 
benediction.  Ah !  I  could  embrace  them,  every  one,  with 
the  feeling  of  a  son  or  brother  !  How  much  do  they  recall ! 
It  vas  under  their  shade  that  we  brooded  over  the  chroni 
cles  of  old  Ycrtot  and  Froissart  together.  They  have 
g^own  together  in  uy  mind  with  these  old  chronicles,  and 


THE    RUINED    HAMLET.  15 

I  could  fancy  the  knights  of  the  temple  and  the  hospital  all 
pleasantly  encamped  beneath  their  friendly  shelter." 

• "  Row  strange,  sir,  that  the  imagination  should  thus 
speak  out  with  you,  rather  than  with  me.  The  sight  of 
that  wild  retreat  for  our  rustic  muses  brings  me  other 
images  and  aspects,  which  appeal  only  to  the  affections. 
My  fancies,  at  the  sight,  bring  me  glimpses  of  boyish  forms, 
that  leap  and  run  along  beneath  the  shadows.  Instead  of 
the  trumpets  of  chivalry,  I  hear  only  the  merry  shouts  of 
boyhood,  such  as  made  this  little  valley  ring  with  the  gen 
uine  music  of  the  heart  in  those  happy,  happy  days." 

"  Music !  ah !  my  dear  boy,  I  little  thought  it  so, 
when  they  made  my  ears  ring  too,  with  clamors,  which 
made  me  pray,  a  thousand  times,  for  the  dreamy  and  sad 
silence,  such  as  the  scene  affords  us  now.  That  I  should 
now  feel  this  silence  so  painfully  oppressive,  is  more  pro 
foundly  in  proof  than  any  other  sign,  of  the  terrible  char 
acter  of  the  human  change  which  the  passing  time  has 
brought.  Where  are  all  these  merry  children  now  ?  The 
memory  of  those  clamorous  shouts,  and  that  happy  uproar 
of  boyhood,  comes  now  with  a  sensible  pleasure  to  my 
heart,  and  arouses  it  with  a  delicious  thrill.  And  I,  who 
bemoaned  the  fate  which  fettered  me  so  long  in  this  obscure 
hamlet — dead  to  the  world,  and  wholly  unfruitful  —  even  I 
could  be  persuaded  to  entreat  of  Heaven  that  the  season 
might  return  once  more.  I  was  not  sufficiently  grateful, 
my  son,  for  the  peace  —  with  all  its  boy-clamors  —  of  that 
rustic  solitude.  Now,  that  all  is  gone,  and  all  is  ruin 
which  I  see,  I  feel,  for  the  first  time,  how  very  precious  a»id 
beautiful  was  it  all." 

"You  have  made  all  this  sacrifice  for  me,  my  father!" 
said  the  young  man,  while  his  hand  rested  fondly  upon  the 
arm  of  the  other. 

"  It  was  fit  I  should,  William  ;  and  you  have  more  than 
requited  me,  my  son.  But,  in  truth,  there  was  no  sacrifice. 
There  was  need  of  change  —  for  me  as  for  you.  My  owr 


16  BEAUCHAMPE. 

heart  required  it.  I  had  grown  a  discontent.  This  unper 
forming  life  of  simple  peace  and  rustic  content,  is  not  to 
be  allowed  to  those  who  have  burning  thoughts  in  their 
brains,  and  earnest  desires  in  their  hearts.  It  is  for  such, 
only  to  snatch  moments  of  this  sort  of  life,  as  it  were,  for 
rest  and  refreshment  after  toils,  and  that  the}'  may  recover 
strength  for  new  fields  of  wrestle,  and  trial,  arid  perform 
ance.  I  had  "lived  in  it  too  long.  I  was  rapidly  sinking 
into  all  sorts  of  unbecoming  dotages.  I  have  grown 
stronger,  and  wiser,  and  better,  from  the  change.  I  do  not 
deplore  it,  though  I  may  look  with  sorrow  over  the  mourn 
ful  ruins  of  the  once  familiar  and  favorite  retreat.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  melancholy  spectacle." 

"  And  how  very  strange  that  so  short  a  period  should 
destroy  every  vestige  of  the  life  and  pleasure  of  the  place  !" 

"  Shall  we  wonder,  when  we  see  how  brief  a  term  is 
needed  here  to  substitute  desolation  for  life,  that  the  great 
cities  of  the  past  should  leave  so  few  vestiges  —  that  the 
very  sites  of  so  many  should  be  forgotten  ?  Were  we  now  to 
descend  among  the  old  thoroughfares,  we  should  possibly 
lose  our  way,  familiar  .as  was  once  the  path  —  we  should 
find  ourselves  wondering  at  the  decreased  or  increased 
length  of  distances,  at  the  great  size  or  the  smallness  of 
places,  the  measure  of  which  seems  to  have  been  taken  on 
our  very  hearts.  We  never  think  of  the  change  in  our 
selves  !" 

"  But  the  fate  of  the  place  is  still  so  very  curious  a  mys 
tery.  One  would  think,  from  what  we  knew,  that  every 
day  would  only  contribute  to  its  utility,  and  growth,  and 
beauty.  Here  were  health,  security,  sweetness,  innocence 
—  every  possible  charm  —  all  that  should  make  a  village 
dear  to  its  inhabitants." 

"Ah!  my  son,  but  its  inhabitants  lacked  the  all-in-all, 
content.  You,  for  example,  to  whom  this  peaceful  dell  was 
so  beautiful,  you  were  one  of  the  first  to  leave  it." 

"Yes!     But  not  willingly.     I  was  expelled  from  it  by 


THE    RUINED    HAMLET.  17 

cruel  necessities,  by  a  harsh  and  brutal  fate.  It  was  with 
no  exulting  desire  that  I  left  its  sacred  abodes.  They 
refused  any  longer  to  entertain  me.  I  was  driven  ruth 
lessly  from  the  sanctuary  which  denied  me  refuge  any 
longer." 

"  And  I  am  one  of  those  who  rejoice  that  you  were  so 
driven.  The  necessity  which  expelled  you  from  the  sanc 
tuary  was  the  mother  of  a  glorious  future.  It  brought  out 
the  manhood  that  was  in  you.  It  taught  you  to  know  yo'.r 
strength  and  muscle  —  forced  you  to  their  exercise,  and 
will  crown  your  name  with  honor !" 

"  And  yet,  sir,  I  would  gladly  exchange  all  that  I  am  — 
all  that  I  hope  to  be  —  for  the  restoration  of  that  hope  and 
home  of  boyhood,  which  I  was  thus  driven  to  abandon." 

"  No,  Willie,  you  would  not.  This  is  only  the  sentiment 
of  a  passing  mood,  which  you  will  not  rationally  seek  to 
encourage.  It  is  better  as  it  is !  You  arc  better  as  you 
are  ;  and,  to-morrow,  when  you  return  to  your  duties,  your 
performances  —  the  toils  you  have  grappled  with  so  man 
fully—the  field  into  which  you  have  so  nobly  sunk  the 
shaft — you  will  feel  how  idle  is  the  sentiment  which  seems 
so  natural  to  you  now.  If  this  was  the  scene  of  your  boy 
ish  sports  and  hopes,  my  son,  you  are  not  to  forget  that  it 
was  also  the  scene  of  your  disappointments — your  sorrows 
—your  first  strifes  —  your  bitter  humiliations  !  Would  you 
go  over  that  period  of  doubt,  and  strife,  and  scorn,  and 
chame  ?  Would  you  feel  anew  the  pang  of  denial  —  tin 
defeat  and  disappointment  of  every  youthful  hope  ?" 

"  Do  not — do  not  remind  me  !  It  is  as  you  say  !  And 
yet,  sir,  returning  to  the  subject  with  which  \ve  began,  how 
strange  that  all  should  have  abandoned  the  village.  I  was 
the  only  involuntary  exile.  I  was  the  only  one  whom  the 
fates  seemed  resolute  to  expel.  Why  should  they  fly  also, 
aad  so  soon  after  me  ?  Where  should  my  poor  old  father, 
John  Hinkley,  and  my  mother,  for  example,  find  the  motive 
for  leaving  the  home  where  they  had  so  long  dwelt  happily, 


18  BEAUCffAMPE. 

and,  in  tlic  decline  of  life,  why  seek  an  abode  upon  the 
Choctaw  borders  ?  It  could  not  be  the  love  of  gain  ;  they 
had  enough !" 

"  You  forget  that  your  father  had  become  something  of  a 
monomaniac.  He  followed  the  ministry  of  John  Cross. 
Your  departure,  too,  my  son,  had  probably  something  to  do 
with  it.  His  stubborn  pride  of  heart  naturally  kept  him 
from  making  any  admissions  ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  he  felt 
keenly  the  wrong  that  he  had  done  you.  The  discovery  of 
the  true  character  of  Alfred  Stevens  must  have  done  a  great 
deal  toward  disabusing  him  of  his  superstitions  —  for  they 
were  superstitions  really  —  in  respect  to  both  of  you.  What 
does  your  mother  -say  in  her  last  letter  ?" 

"  They  are  well  ;  but  she  mentions,  particula:ly,  that  my 
father  never  mentions  my  name,  and  avoids  the  subject." 

"  A  proof  that  he  broods  upon  it,  and  with  no  self-satis 
faction.  Your  departure,  his,  and  that  of  the  Coopers,  are 
easily  accounted  for ;  and  did  we  know  the  secret  history 
of  all  the  other  villagers  —  their  small,  sweet,  deceptive 
hopes  ;  each  man's  petty  calculations,  and  petty  projects  — 
all  grounded  in  some  vexing  little  discontent;  there  would 
be  no  difficulty,  I  f^ncy,  in  finding  sufficient  reasons,  or  at 
least  motives,  for  the  flight  of  all." 

"  Still,  sir,  there  seems  to  be  a  fate  in  it !" 

"  Why,  yes ;  if  by  this  word.  Fate,  you  mean  a  ProTi- 
dence.  I  have  no  doubt  that  these  sparrows  arc  all,  in. 
some  degree,  the  care  of  Providence  ;  and,  whether  they 
fall  or  fly,  the  omniscient  eye  sees,  and  the  omnipresent 
finger  points.  Your  error,  perhaps,  lies  in  the  very  natural 
assumption  that  mere  place,  itself,  becomes  an  essential  of 
humanity.  These  wandering  hearts  do  not  cease  to  beat 
with  hope,  because  they  no  longer  beat  in  the  cottage  of 
their  boyhood.  Their  limbs  do  ^ot  cease  to  labor,  nor  their 
minds  to  think,  because  they  break  ground  and  plant  stakes 
in  remote  forests  of  the  south  and  west.  Mere  locality  is, 
after  all,  a  very  small  consideration,  in  any  question  of  thQ 


flili    liUIXLD    HA. \ILKT  19 

interests  of  humanity.  It  is  the  man  tha.  makes  the  place 
what  it  is  or  should  be !" 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think,  sir,  that  we  something  under 
value  the  social  importance  of  place.  A  population  losed 
something  of  its  moral  when  it  wanders.  It  substitutes  a 
savage  wildness  for  domestic  virtues." 

"  Granted !  For  a  time  this  is  certainly  the  case.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  an  old  locality  is  liable  to  suffer  from 
the  worse  evil  of  moral  stagnation  ;  and  the  euro  of  this 
demands  the  thunder-storm.  The  extreme  conditions  usu 
ally  work  out  precisely  the  same  consequences  in  the  end ; 
and,  in  the  case  of  society,  the  locality  is  altogether  a  sub 
ordinate  condition.  My  old  trees,  there,  were  very  grate 
ful  to  both  of  us ;  but  I  became  an  imbecile  under  them,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  dolce  far  niente —  that  luxury  which 
has  destroyed  the  very  nation  from  whom  we  borrow  the 
phrase  !  And  the  same  delightful  condition  of  wow-perform 
ance,  continued  for  five  years,  would  have  ruined  you,  also, 
for  any  career  of  usefulness  and  manhood.  And  this 
would  have  been  a  crime,  my  son,  as  well  as  a  shame. 
Neither  you  nor  I,  believe  me,  were  designed  for  the  sla 
vish  employment — however  sweet— 

"  To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neiera's  hair." 

"I  know  not,  sir,  I  know  not!  Fame  is  something  — 
something  charming  and  fascinating — having  its  uses  no 
doubt ;  and  designed  for  the  natural  and  gradual  elevation 
of  the  race  as  well  as  individual.  But  the  heart  ought  not 
to  be  sacrificed  for  the  brain  —  the  sensibilities  and  affec- 
tions  for  the  genius.  There  should  be  a  life  for  each,  for 
all ;  and  to  surrender  the  one  up  entirely  to  the  other, 
works  dismay  in  the  soul,  and  decay  in  the  sympathies,  and 
leaves  ashes  only  upon  the  hearth  of  home !" 

"  But  why  the  sacrifice  of  either,  my  son  ?  Who  says 
surrender  the  affections  to  the  genius  —  sacrifice  the  heart 


20  B£AUCHA.MPE. 

to  the  brain !  It  is  not  the  counsel  of  Milton.  It  is  far 
from  my  wish  that  you  should  do  so.  Nourish  both.  The 
heart,  in  fact,  the  sensibilities,  are  the  absolute  necessities 
of  genius.  The  brain,  so  far  from  demanding  the  annihila 
tion  of  the  affections  and  sympathies,  actually  draws  con 
stant  food  from  their  abundant  sources,  by  which  its  own 
strength  and  vitality  are  cherished  for  performance.  No 
intellect  is  in  perfect  symmetry  unless  it  maintains  a  con 
stant  intercourse  with  the  warmest  human  affections.  It  is 
altogether  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  they  can  maintain  a 
separate  existence,  or  that  one  can  preserve  its  integrity 
without  due  co-operation  with  the  other.  The  most  healthy 
genius  is  that  which  never  surrenders  its  humanity,  ll 
may  suffer  disappointment — nay,  agony  —  but  it  is  in  the 
very  moment  of  the  heart's  worst  sufferings  that  the  intel 
lect  is  most  needed,  and  it  furnishes  adequate  help  for  sup 
port  and  relief,  provided  the  training  of  both  has  been  com 
mensurate  to  their  mutual  wants  and  necessities." 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  younger  shaking  his  head 
mournfully  —  "you  forget  my  fortunes." 

"  Do  I  ?  No,  indeed  !  I  repeat,  my  son,  that  your  for 
tunes  have  been  equally  beneficial  to  your  head  and  your 
heart.  You  mistake,  altogether,  when  you  confound  a  dis 
appointment —  the  defeat  and  denial  of  a  boyish  hope-- 
with  the  annihilation  of  the  heart.  A  hope  and  fancy  arc 
repeatedly  crushed  out  of  existence ;  but  we  should  err 
very  greatly  to  suppose  that  the  life  of  the  affections — tho 
heart — had  suffered  serious  hurt.  No!  no!  Believe  inc. 
your  heart  is  quite  as  sound  as  ever.  What  are  the  proofs? 
In  my  sight,  they  are  hourly  present,  if  not  in  yours.  Your 
disappointments  have  saddened  your  fancies,  but  have  they 
impaired  your  strength  ?  They  have  rendered  your  thoughts 
graver  in  hue  than  is  usual  with  your  years,  but  have  they 
not  acquired  in  vigor  what  they  may  have  lost  in  brightness  I 
You  do  not  play  now  with  thought,  but  you  can  work  with 
it,  as  you  never  did  before.  You  do  not  sport  and  trifle 


THE    RUINED    HAMLET.  21 

now  with  life,  but  you  feel  it  as  a  circle  spreading  every 
where,  connecting  you  with  all  the  links  of  existence,  mi 
king  you  sympathize  with  all  its  pulses  and  vibrations,  and 
sensibly  lifting  your  mood  to  the  contemplation  of  all  its 
higher  offices  and  duties.  In  short,  you  have  made  a  sud 
den  spring  from  the  dreaming,  uncaring,  unheeding,  nature 
of  the  boy  —  as  it  were  in  a  single  night  —  into  the  active 
consciousness  of  all  the  responsibilities,  glorious  thoueii 
saddening,  which  belongs  to  a  proper  manhood.  Now 
men  possess  real  manhood  only  in  degree  with  their  capa 
city  to  perform.  Had  you  been  still  a  dweller  in  Cliarie- 
mont  — had  you  gained  the  objects  of  your  boy  desires  in 
that  place,  you  would  have  sunk  into  the  habitual  torpor  of 
the  place.  You  would  never  have  found  out  what  is  in  you 

—  would  have  been  nothing  and  done  nothing." 

"  I  might  have  been  happy !"  answered  the  other  gloom- 
ily. 

"  No  !  my  son.  You  would  have  gratified  a  youthful  fancy, 
and,  would  have  survived  it !  This  is  a  common  history  of 
what  is  vulgarly  called  youthful  happiness.  What  would 
have  remained  to  you  then  ?  Misanthropy.  The  graver 
necessities  of  the  mind  take  the  place  very  soon  of  its  boy 
ish  fancies,  and  demand  stronger  food.  Fancy  is  but  the 
food  of  a  thought  just  beginning  to  develop.  It  requires 
strong  meat  very  soon  after,  and  this  can  be  afforded  only 
by  earnest  grappling  with  care  and  toil,  and  trial  and  pain 

—  those  angel  overseers,  whom  God  appoints,  to  go:id   (he 
truant  and   the  idle  nature  to  its   proper  tasks.     I  repeat 
that  your  loss  in  Charlcmont  is  the  most  fortunate  of  all 
your  gains." 

"  Would  I  could  think  so,  my  father.  Yet  her  image 
passes  before  me  ever  with  so  pleading  a  face.  I  see  her 
now,  as  I  have  seen  her  a  thousand  times  among  those  old 
groves  ;  treading  those  crags  ;  gliding,  with  eager  and  fear 
less  step  down  those  precipices  which  conduct  to  the  silent, 
»ad,  and  beautiful  tarn,  where  we  were  once  so  fond  to 


fc*  BEAUCHAMPE. 

brood.  In  my  mind's  eye  I  shall  never  cease  to  behold  that 
beautiful  yet  mournful  memory  —  two  images,  so  unlike  each 
other,  of  the  same  being  ;  one  proud,  and  brave,  and  noble, 
like  l.hc  eagle  soaring  up  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  other  gloomy, 
dispirited,  made  ashamed,  like  the  same  brave  bird,  with 
wing  broken,  the  film  over  his  eyes,  close  fettered  in  a  cage 
of  iron,  and  with  curious  fingers  pointing  to  the  earth-spots 
on  breast  and  pinion." 

ki  A  pitiful  contrast,  in  sooth,  my  son.  and  such  as  it  is 
very  natural  that  your  imagination  should  frequently  de- 
nict  before  your  eyes.  But  both  of  these  images  will  grad 
ually  fade  from  siirht.  A  newer  world  will  supersede  your 
past ;  new  forms  and  aspects  will  take  the  places  of  the  old  ; 
new  affections  will  spring  up  in  your  soul ;  nay,  fresh  fan 
cies  will  wing  their  way  to  your  heart,  and  a  nobler  idea 
of  love  itself  will  possess  your  affections.  The  heart  has 
resources  not  less  fertile  than  the  fancy.  God  has  not 
decreed  it  to  isolation.  You  will  see  and  feel  new  plants 
of  verdure  suddenly  appearing  upon  the  waste  places;  nay, 
the  very  heat  and  ashes  of  former  passions  prepare  the 
ground  for  superior  plants  of  more  verdure,  strength,  and 
beauty.  The  time  will  come  when  you  will  wonder  that 
you  ever  felt  the  pang  and  privation  which  trouble  you 
now.  Five  years  hence  you  will  be  unwilling  to  believe 
me  when  I  describe,  as  I  hope  playfully  to  do,  the  fierce 
troubles  of  your  soul  at  present." 

The  youth  shook  his  head  negatively,  as  he  said  — 

"  Impossible !" 

u  One  thing  is  certain,  William.  You  are  now  confes 
sedly  one  of  the  first  lawyers  in  Kentucky.  Our  little  world 
acknowledges  your  power.  If  politics  were  your  aim,  the 
field  is  open  to  you,  and  it  invites  you.  Yet,  five  years 
ago,  you  were  desponding  on  the  subject  of  your  capacity. 
Then,  you  had  misgivings  of  your  strength,  and  fancied  that 
your  powers  but  imperfectly  seconded  your  wish.  Your 
ambition  was  then  regarded  as  the  dream  of  a  foolish  van- 


THE    KUINKD    HAMLET.  23 

ity,  which  was  destined  only  to  rebuke  and  disappointment. 
Look  at  your  position  now  —  behold  your  own  perform 
ances.  It  was  but  the  other  day,  when  Harry  Clay  said 
to  me :  '  He  is  the  most  promising  of  our  young  men.  I 
would  not  counsel  him  to  politics ;  yet,  if  he  should  desire 
that  field,  he  will  conquer  in  it.  Pie  has  the  steadfastness, 
the  enlarged  view,  the  industry,  and  the  endowment,  which 
will  give  him  rank  among  the  highest  whenever  he  shall  be 
disposed  to  fling  off  the  mere  lawyer,  and  embark  on  the 
troubled  sea  of  politics.' ' 

"  In  truth,  a  troubled  sea." 

"Yes  ;  but  so  far  a  persuasive  one  to  ambition,  as,  just 
now,  it  needs  such  a  good  helmsman  for  the  ship  of  state. 
I  counsel  politics  no  more  than  our  friend  Clay ;  but  the  time 
approaches  when  no  man  of  mark  will  be  allowed  to  with 
hold  his  seamanship.  Keep  to  the  law  for  the  present,  and 
wait  your  time.  I  would  have  no  son  of  mine  —  no  friend 
—  undertake  state  affairs  of  any  sort  till  he  is  fairly  thirty 
or  thirty-five.  A  democracy  is  the  very  world  in  which  to 
break  down  premature  young  men.  It  is  the  very  world 
for  strong  men  —  naturally  strong  —  who  have  allowed  them 
selves  to  harden  into  perfect  manhood  before  they  attempt 
a  province  in  which  the  wrestle  is  beyond  their  strength. 
You  are  naturally  too  well  endowed  and  too  well  trained 
to  sink  into  the  mere  lawyer.  You  will  never  forego  the 
nobler  powers  of  generalization  in  the  practice  of  a  petty 
detail.  The  very  troubles  of  your  affections  have  thrown 
the  proper  burdens  upon  your  mind ;  and  you  will  go  on 
conquering,  my  son,  until  you  have  equally  purged  your 
heart  and  your  understanding  of  all  these  delusions.  You 
will  forget,  among  other  dreams  of  boyhood,  the  very  one 
which  has  had  such  an  effect,  for  good  upon  your  fortunes, 
and  for  evil,  as  you  think,  upon  your  heart.  The  image  of 
Margaret  Cooper  will  fade  from  your  fancy,  or  remain  only 
as  a  study,  in  which  you  will  be  just  as  likely  to  wonder  at 
your  delusion  as  to  cherish  it  fondly.  There  will  come  a 


24  BEAUCHAMPE. 

season  when  your  heart  will  open  to  a  wiser,  and  purer 
and  nobler  affection  —  when  you  will  seek  and  find  an  object 
of  attachment,  who  will  be  more  worthy  of  your  love,  an-d 
will  be  bettor  able  to  requite  your  desires." 

"  Never!  never! — no,  sir,  no!  I  freely  tell  you  that, 
promising  as  are  my  social  prospects  now,  honorable  as  is 
the  reputation  which  I  have  acquired,  grateful  as  the  future 
promises  to  be  to  my  ambition,  I  would  gladly  forego  all, 
were  I  once  more  restored  to  that  one  hope  of  my  boyhood 
—  could  I  attain  now,  in  her  original  purity,  the  one  being 
who  filled  all  my  desires,  and  might  have  satisfied  all  mj 
cravings  of  heart." 

"  You  think  so  now  ;  but  wait.  Five  years  have  wrought 
the  most  wonderful  changes  in  your  mind.  Another  five 
years  will  work  other  changes,  quite  as  wonderful,  in  your 
affections.  The  destiny  before  you  will  not  be  defrauded. 
After  all,  the  heart  of  man  keeps  very  much  in  the  track 
of  his  iitellect;  and  the  charm  that  satisfies  the  one  at 
first,  requires  in  the  end  to  satisfy  the  other.  You  will 
forget — " 

Here  a  sudden  start  and  exclamation  of  the  young  man 
arrested  the  remarks  of  the  aged  speaker,  who,  the  next 
moment,  was  confounded  to  behold  his  companion  rise  up 
at  a  single  bound,  and  rush  almost  headlong  down  the  hill. 
lie  called  to  him  : — 

"  What  is  the  matter,  William  ?     What  do  you  see  :" 

The  youth  did  not  answer,  but,  throwing  out  his  arms  as 
he  ran,  -he  pointed  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  valley,  whery- 
following  with  his  eyes,  the  senior  caught  a  glimpse  —  but 
a  single  glimpse  —  of  a  female  figure,  in  widow's  weeds,  re 
tiring  from  sight.  In  another  moment  the  figure  was  hidden 
from  view  by  the  crags  of  the  range  of  heights  beyond. 
The  young  man,  meanwhile,  kept  a  headlong  course,  stii) 
downward,  pursuing  his  way  into  the  valley  of  the  settle 
mcnt,  with  the  fleetncss  of  a  deer. 

"  Can  it  be  Margaret  Cooper  whom  he  has  seen?"  niur- 


THE    RUINED    HAMLET.  2K> 

mured  the  old  man  to  himself,  as  he  slowly  rose  up,  and 
prepared  to  follow,  but  more  slowly,  down  the  hill. 

"  Can  she  be  here  ?  can  she  be  living?  and  how  has  she 

O 

contrived  to  elude  all  inquiry  ?  If  it  be  she,  how  unfortu 
nate  !  It  will  revive,  in  full  force,  all  his  wild  anxieties. 
It  will  arrest  him  in  the  nobler  course  he  is  now  pursuing. 
But  no,  no !  I  have  better  hopes.  God  will  not  suffer  this 
defeat!" 

'4 


26  BE^UCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE   UNEXPECTED   MEETING. 

THE  five  years  of  lapsing  events  which,  in  the  career  of 
William  Hinkley,  had  brought  him  to  distinction  in  his  pro 
fession,  the  esteem  of  society,  the  love  and  admiration  of 
friends,  had  been  productive  of  very  different  results  to  the 
woman  he  had  once  loved  with  all  the  ardor  of  ingenuous 
passion,  and  for  whom,  as  we  have  seen,  he  still  entertained 
emotions,  if  not  affections,  of  the  most  tender  regard  and 
interest.  She  had  sunk  from  the  heights  of  self-esteem  to 
the  lowest  depths  of  self-abasement.  She,  the  village- 
beauty,  proud  equally  of  her  intellect  and  personal  charms, 
had,  in  this  to  her  dreary  interval,  been  fettered  in  an  ob 
scurity  as  impenetrable  by  others  as  it  was  deep,  dark,  and 
humiliating,  to  herself.  Of  the  cruel  sorrows  of  this  period 
it  is  impossible  to  make  any  adequate  record.  The  gnaw 
ing  misery  of  hopelessness ;  the  consciousness  of  sin  and 
weakness  ;  the  bitterness  of  defrauded  hopes,  and  aims,  and 
powers  ;  the  loss  of  name,  position,  love  ;  the  forfeiture  of 
all  those  precious  regards  which  are  so  necessary  to  the  life 
of  the  young,  the  beautiful,  and  the  ambitious  —  these  had 
worked  their  natural  consequences,  in  the  thought  perpetu 
ally  brooding  over  the  ruin,  in  which  every  flower  of  hope, 
and  pride,  and  love,  had  been  stifled  in  dust  and  ashes. 

Yet  she  lived  !  She  would  willingly  have  died.  She 
prayed  for  death.  She  meditated  death  by  her  own  hands  ; 
and  it  was  the  indulgent  providence  of  God  alone — by 


THE    UNEXPECTED    MEETING.  27 

almost  direct  interposition  —  that  saved  her  from  this  last 
dreadful  method  of  escape  from  the  terrible  soul-suffering 
of  those  last  live  years. 

Strange  that  she  should  thus  live  —  with  her  pride,  and 
all  her  passions,  rendered  mad  by  disappointment,  preying 
perpetually  upon  her  heart !  For  a  time,  there  was  a  weary 
blank  in  her  existence,  in  which  she  did  not  even  dream. 
Her  vitality  seemed  utterly  suspended.  When  she  recovered 
from  this  condition,  which  was  meant  as  a  merciful  allevia 
tion  of  her  acuter  sufferings,  it  was  to  endure  the  active 
gnawings  of  her  grief.  For  another  period,  her  life  was  a 
long  spasm  —  a  series  of  spasms  —  in  which  she  was  con 
scious  of  no  security  from  hour  to  hour  —  in  which  all  in 
her  soul  was  in  wild  uproar  and  confusion  —  storm  and 
calm  alternating  ever  —  and  no  certainty  of  life  or  sanity 
for  a  single  day.  That  was  the  period  of  her  greatest  peril. 
It  had  been  easy  for  her  then,  by  a  single  blow,  to  end  the 
terrible  history;  and  a  thousand  times,  during  this  period, 
did  she  murmur  to  herself — 

"  it  is  surely  not  so  difficult  to  die !" 

But  they  watched  her  !  The  deed  was  prevented.  She 
lived,  and  lived  for  another  passion  —  darker  even  than 
suicide,  and  more  deadly.  To  this  .•she  bent  all  her  thoughts. 
To  this  she  u'ave  all  her  prayers.  Shame,  defeat,  over 
throw —  the  utter  annihilation  of  all  her  ambitious  dreams 
—  those  brought  her  none  of  those  humiliations  of  pride  in 
which  the  prayer  for  grace  and  mercy  find  their  origin,  and 
realize  the  blessed  fruits  of  penitence.  The  blow,  which 
humbled  her  for  ever  in  society,  had  only  wounded  her 
pride,  not  crushed  it;  only  stung  her  brain  to  madness,  not 
soothed  it  wit!-  a  sense  of  feebleness  and  dependence,  ma 
king  it  a  lit  hor?c  £>r  gentle  thoughts,  and  subdued  desires, 
and  a  strengthening  humility.  Her  prayers,  for  a  long 
season,  were  addressed  only  to  the  gratification  of  that  wild 
justice  which  infuses  the  savage  soul  with  the  dream  of 
vengeance  !  — 


28  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"Being  mortal  still,  [she]  had  no  repose, 

But  on  the  pillow  of  revenge  !     Revenge  — 
Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood ;  and,  waking,  glows 
With  the  oft-baffled,  slakeless  thirst ! — " 

There  was  but  oue  victim.  But  the  fates  interposed  for 
liis  safety — and  her  own.  She  was  in  no  situation  to 
gratify  hor  desires.  She  knew  not  how  to  name  —  knew 
not  where  to  seek  — the  spoiler  of  her  happiness.  She  was 
a  woman,  and  must  wait  her  time — wait  on  circumstance 
and  chance,  and  the  favoring  succor  of  that  subtle  demon 
whom  she  called  upon  in  place  of  Deity.  And  he  finally 
responded  to  her  call. 

But  there  was  a  dreary  interval  to  be  overcome  and  en 
dured. 

In  this  period,  her  whole  person,  as  her  soul,  had  under 
gone  a  curious  change.  The  fair,  white  skin  became  jaun 
diced.  The  fine,  dark,  expressive  eye  had  assumed  a  dull, 
greenish  hue,  and  seemed  covered  with  a  filmy  glaze.  Her 
frame  became  singularly  attenuated,  her  limbs  feeble ;  she 
frequently  sunk  from  exhaustion,  and  would  lie  for  hours, 
gasping  upon  her  bed,  or  upon  the  dried  leaves  of  the  for 
est,  in  the  shades  of  which  she  perpetually  sought  escape 
from  the  sight  of  human  eyes.  That  she  survived  the  long 
strain  upon  her  faculties  of  mind  and  body,  was  wonderful 
to  all.  Yet  she  did  survive. 

More  !  she  gradually  threw  off  the  feebleness  and  suffering 
of  the  frame.  She  was  again  endowed  with  a  noble  hardi 
hood  of  constitution.  She  had  a  proud,  steadfast,  enduring 
will.  The  very  working  of  her  passions,  now  concentrated 
upon  a  single  object,  seemed,  after  a  certain  period  of  pros 
tration,  to  work  for  her  relief.  Gradually  another  change 
followed.  Her  skin  became  cleared.  The  jaundice  dis 
appeared.  Her  eyes  became  healthy  in  expression  — 
bright  as  before — but  not  happy  in  their  brightness;  lu 
minous,  yet  'vi.ld  ;  cf  a  gloomy  beauty,  in  which  the  whole 
face  shared.  She  did  not  smile  a.gain,  or,  if  she  did,  it  was 


THE    UNEXPECTED    MEETING.  29 

in  a  manner  to  mock  the  smile  with  bitterness.  Her  mind 
resumed  its  activity,  though  it  still  pursued  what  the  mor 
alist  may  well  call  an  insane  direction,  fixed  only  upon  a 
Ringle  object,  which  seemed  to  supersede  all  others.  For 
merly,  she  had  felt,  and  dreamed,  and  imagined,  poetry ; 
now  she  wrote  it — wild,  dark,  spasmodic  fancies  glowing 
in  her  song,  which  was  wholly  impulsive,  not  systematic — 
the  effusion  of  blood  and  brain  working  together  intensely, 
and  relieving  themselves  by  sudden  gushes  which  were  like 
improvisations. 

It  was  sometime  after  she  had  reached  this  condition, 
when,  one  day,  she  declared  her  intention  to  revisit  Charle- 
mont.  Her  retreat  was  only  seven  miles  from  this  spot,  in 
an  obscure  farm  to  which  no  public  road  conducted. 

Her  mother  somewhat  wondered  at  this  desire,  but  did 
not  oppose  it.  They  were  both  well  aware  of  the  change 
which  live  years  had  wrought  in  the  fortunes  of  this  once 
beautiful  village.  It  had  been  productive  of  sore  loss  to 
them  in  money.  They  had  sold  their  little  cottage,  under 
mortgage,  and  the  purchaser  had  abandoned  the  property, 
leaving  the  debt  unpaid.  Something  was  said  by  Margaret 
of  the  necessity  of  seeing  that  the  building  was  kept  in  re 
pair,  but  the  suggestion  was  only  made  as  a.  sort  of  pretext 
justifying  the  visit.  The  mother  very  well  knew  that  the 
daughter  had  another  motive.  Though  by  no  means  a  sa 
gacious  interpreter  of  heart  or  mind,  she  yet  readily  under 
stood  that  the  proposed  visit  was  the  fruit  of  some  morbid 
fancy  ;  but  shtJ  did  not  see  tha~  any  evil  would  result  from 
sutTering  Margaret  to  indulge  ner  mood ;  and,  in  fact,  she 
had  long  since  learned  that  opposition  was  by  no  means  the 
process  by  which  to  effect  her  objects  with  her  daughter,  or 
to  bring  her  mind  into  the  proper  condition  in  which  it  usu 
ally  regards  the  social  requisitions  as  the  natural  law.  She 
offered  no  objection  accordingly. 

The  little  family  carry-all — a  snug,  simple  box,  drawn 
by  one  horse  —  was  got  in  readiness,  the  negro  drivei 


30 

mounted,  and  the  girl  departed  upon  her  secret  mission  of 
sad  thought,  and  melancholy  revery,  in  a  region  which  had 
been  the  source  of  all  her  sorrows 

She  sought  the  old  cottage,  penetrated  its  silent  cham 
bers,  and  busied  herself  for  awhile  in  a  search  of  closets 
which  seemed  to  afford  her  nothing.  Her  search  led  her  to 
sundry  bundles  of  old  papers.  These  she  pulled  apart  and 
examined  in  detail.  From  these  she  extracted-  some  scraps 
which  she  put  away  carefully  in  her  bag.  and  after  this,  she 
scarcely  looked  at  the  dwelling,  which  already  needed  the 
regards  of  locksmith  and  carpenter. 

How  soon  the  favorite  place  goes  to  ruin  if  left  to  itself. 
There  shall  be  a  snug  simple  house,  in  which  your  heart 
first  found  its  want,  your  soul  its  first  speech,  your  dearest 
joy  its  first  satisfaction,  and  five  years  after  you  have  aban 
doned  it,  it  will  be  desolate — the  lichen  will  glide  over  its 
walls  ;  the  door  will  fall  from  its  hinges ;  the  shutter,  the 
sash,  drop  to  fragments.  Shall  time  spare  us  any  more 
than  our  dwellings  ? 

Yet  can  he  not  utterly  destroy  ! 

The  heart  recognises  a  soul  in  the  lonely  and  desolated 
ruin.  There  is  a  subtle  spirit  appealing  to  you  from  every 
corner.  Nay,  you  will  surely  hear  voices  in  the  lonely 
rooms  which  call  upon  all  the  affections  to  restore,  rebuild 
—  return  ! 

Poor  Margaret  heard  these  voices  all  around  her.  They 
startled  her.  They  seemed  to  mock  her  fall  —  to  depict 
the  state  from  which  she  had  fallen  —  to  compare  her  own 
with  the  desolation  of  the  scene  around  her.  And  finally, 
they  spoke  in  the  well-remembered  tones  of  her  betrayer. 
She  fancied  she  heard  Alfred  Stevens  close  beside  her, 
whispering  his  subtle  eloquence  —  those  snares  of  fancy  and 
passion  which  he  had  so  successfully  woven,  for  her  ruin. 

And  this  voice  lifted  her  into  strength.  Then  she  re 
membered  that  she  had  an  oath  of  vengeance  ;  and  she  went 
forth  from  the  lonely  dwelling,  only  half  conscious  that  she 


TMF     JN'KXT  KrTKf)    MKKTIXG.  31 

went,  and  almost  heedless  of  her  steps,  she  took  her  way 
up  the  rocky  Heights  to  the  lonely  tarn  whither  she  had  so 
often  wandered  with  him. 

And  the  past  returned  to  her  memory,  and  filled  her 
imagination  with  all  its  chronicles  of  mixed  sweet  and  bit 
ter — pride  and  shame  —  and  keen  was  the  agony  that  fol 
lowed,  and  terrible  the  oath  which  she  now  renewed,  of 
vengeance  for  the  wrongs  she  had  suffered  and  the  degra 
dation  which  she  must  perforce  endure.  She  had  no  fu 
ture,  but  in_the  accomplishment  of  this  one  terrible  oath, 
and  she  renewed  it  with  fearful  brevity  and  solemnity  in 
the  shadows  of  those  towering  rocks,  above  the  deep  dark 
waters  of  the  silent  lake  —  by  the  very  scenes  which  had 
witnessed  her  overthrow,  she  called  for  witnesses  to  confirm 
her  oath ! 

And  what  a  picture  to  mind  and  eye  did  she  present  at 
that  moment  —  still  young,  still  beautiful  —  of  noble  figure, 
commanding  form,  bright  haughty  eye,  and  a  face  gloomily 
lovely  —  as  she  stood  forward  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
and  looked  forth  to  sky  and  rock,  her  hand  slowly  rising  in 
adjuration,  as  simple  as  it  was  stern  and  imposing. 

What  witnesses,  of  her  wrongs  and  sufferings,  her  wild 
hopes  and  haughty  aims,  and  their  cruel  defeat,  were  all 
the  objects  which  encompassed  her.  They  were  a  part  of 
herself.  They  had  taught,  informed,  encouraged  her  na 
ture.  She  had  lived  in*  and  with  them  all,  and  all,  in  turn, 
had  infused  their  nature  into  hers.  These  rocks  had  taught 
her  height  and  hardihood ;  these  waters,  deptli  and  contem 
plation,  and  the  tender  nursing  of  solitary  fancies ;  trie 
woods  had  lessoned  her  heart  with  repose ;  and  the  skies, 
with  their  eagles  ever  going  upward,  had  .taught  hv.r  aspi 
ration. 

Very  mournful  were  they  now  in  her  eyes,  assembled  as 
witnesses  of  her  fate.  She  was  their  child.  Their  sad  as 
pects  were  those  of  loving  parents  defrauded  of  every  hope. 
They  might  well  attest  with  sympathetic  sternness  of  brow* 


32  BEAT7CHAMPE. 

and  sadly  echoing  voices,  her  brief,  savage  oath  of  ven* 
geance. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  ye  were  all  the  witnesses  of  mj 
wrongs,  my  blindness,  my  madness,  my  simple  faith,  and 
cruelly-abused  confidence.  Here  it  was,  that  I  listened  to 
the  subtle  voice  of  the  beguiler,  even  as  the  drowsing 
eagle,  to  the  spells  of  the  serpent,  while  he  winds  himself 
fatally  about  the  neck  of  the  free  bird  of  the  mountain  ! 

"Ohl  why  did  ye  not  fall  upon  me,  rocks  —  upon  both 
of  us — ere  I  hearkened  to  the  lying  tempter — who  deluded 
me  with  my  own  hopes,  and  made  my  own  daring  aspirations 
the  very  spells  by  which  to  destroy  me ! 

"  Why,  waters,  when  I  fell  headlong  into  your  embrace, 
did  ye  not  engulf  me  for  ever.  Any  fate  had  been  better 
far  than  this ! 

"  Cruel  wast  thou,  that  day,  in  thy  loving-kindness,  Wil 
liam  Hinklcy,  when  thou  drew'st  me  forth  from  their  abys 
ses  ! 

"Verily,  thou  hadst  thy  vengeance,  AVilliam,  for  all  the 
scorn  which  I  gave  thec  in  return  for  love,  in  the  misery 
for  which  thou  hast  preserved  me  ! 

"Oh!  thinking  of  all  that  time  —  of  the  fond,  foolish 
vanity  which  so  uplifted  me,  only  to  fling  me  down  for  ever 
from  my  pride  of  place  and  hope  —  I  could  weep  tears  of 
blood,  tears  of  blood  ! 

"  But  mine  eyes  are  dry.     Would  I  could  weep ! 

"  Alas,  the  sorrows  that  deny  the  heart  its  tears  are  such 
only  as  fill  it  with  gall  and  venom  !  Wonder  not,  Alfred 
Stevens,  when  I  face  thee  with  death  and  terror!  —  Oh, 
when  we  moot !  when  we  meet ! 

"And  we  shall  meet!  I  feel  that  we  shall  meet.  There 
is  a  whisper,  as  that  of  a  fate,  or  a  demon,  that  breathes  in 
"mine  cars  the  terrible  promise.  We  shall  meet! — thou, 
and  I  —  and  —  Deatli ! — '' 

And  she  crouched  down  upon  the  boulder  upon  which 
she  had  been  standing,  on  the  very  brink  of  that  dark  and 


TTE   D  fEXPECTCL    MtuJ'^rj.  33 


sdeut  lake,  and  buried  her  faco  within  her  hands,  as  if  to 
enut  out  from  sight  the  images  of  horror  which  that  prom 
ised  meeting  had  raised  up  before  her  imagination. 

Poor,  desolate  woman  !  There  was  still  a  strife  in  her 
heart,  of  contending  hate  and  tenderness.  The  woman  who 
has  oiico  loved,  however  mistakenly,  unwisely,  and  to  her 
own  ruin,  never  altogether  loses  the  sentiment  which  even 
her  destroyer  has  inspired.  It  is  still  a  precious  sentiment. 
It  pleads  in  his  behalf;  and  if  he  be  not  heartless,  and  eold, 
and  cruel,  it  will  not  wholly  plead  in  vain.  Mercy  will  in 
terpose  against  hate,  and  the  hand  of  vengeance  will  be  apt 
to  fall  nerveless,  even  when  about  to  strike  fatally. 

But  mercy  does  not  plead  for  Alfred  Stevens.  He  had 
shown  no  redeeming  tenderness.  lie  had  proved  himself 
heartless  —  wantonly  cruel  —  indifferent  to  the  desolating 
doom  which  his  guilty  passions  had  brought  upon  her.^Mar- 
garct  Cooper  could  feel  tenderness  still,  but  it  was  not  for 
him.  Here,  her  soul  was  resolute,  her  will  iron.  She  did 
not  recoil  from  the  horrible  deed  on  his  account,  but  her 
own.  It  was  the  recoil  of  the  feminine  nature  alone,  and 
not  pity,  that  made  her  shrink  from  the  fearful  images  of 
blood  which  were  conjured  up  by  her  excited  fancy. 

But,  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  dream  of  terror  and 
revenge,  she  starts  —  she  starts  to  her  i'eet,  with  a  bound 
that  makes  the  rock  vibrate  and  quiver  beneath  her,  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  precipice. 

A  voice  is  calling  to  her  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
lake.  But  a  single  word  she  hears  :  — 

"  Margaret  !" 

She  looks  beyond  the  water,  and  on  a  cliff  above  the  lake 
she  sees  the  figure  of  a  man  —  a  noble,  graceful  figure  — 
whom  she  recognises  in  a  moment. 

"  God  of  heaven  !  it  is  William  Hinldey  !" 

The  words  are  only  murmured.  She  waves  her  hand  out 
involuntarily,  as  if  to  say  :  — 


£'.'  BKAUCHAMPE. 

•"•Away!  we  must  not  meet!  There  must  be  no  speech 
between  us !" 

And  then  she  starts,  recedes  from  the  stream,  and,  with 
hasty  steps,  glides  into  the  cover  of  rock  and  forest.  She- 
was  gone  from  sight  in  another  moment,  hurrying  down  the 
cliffs  to  the  road  where  her  carriage  had  been  left  at  a  little 
distance. 

William  pursued  —  without  any  purpose,  except  to  meet, 
to  see,  to  speak  once  more  to  the  woman  whom  he  had 
loved,  but  with  whom,  as  a  single  moment  of  thought  would 
have  assured  him,  he  could  have  no  closer  communion. 

He  pursued,  but  at  disadvantage.  .He  was  compelled  to 
compass  the  lake  which  lay  between  them.  He  pursued 
with  the  fleet  bounds  of  the  practised  mountaineer,  over  the 
cliffs,  and  through  the  umbrage  ;  but  in  vain.  She  had 
reached  the  carriage  ere  he  had  descended  from  the  heights. 
She  had  leaped  in,  and,  with  stern,  low  words,  through 
closely-compressed  lips,  she  said  to  the  negro  driver: — • 

"  Drive  fast !  —  fast  as  you  can  !" 

When  the  young  man  descended  to  the  valley-road,  she 
was  gone.  He  could  only  catch  the  faint  echoes  of  the 
receding  wheels. 


PHILOSOPHIES   OF    AGE   AND    YOUTH.  x     36 


CHAPTER   III. 

PHILOSOPHIES   OF    AGE   AND    YOUTH. 

"Now  should  we  make  moral  anatomies 
Of  these  two  natures  —  hostile,  yet  so  like." 

AND  thus  they  met — and  thus  they  parted ! 

Both  creatures  seeking  the  ideal ;  born  for  other 
than  mere  bread  and  meat ;  born  for  love,  for  performance, 
for  triumph  ;  neither  satisfied  —  both  desponding:  the  one 
with  the  half-fanciful  griefs  of  youth,  which  arc  designed  to 
strengthen,  even  as  the  obstruction  which  taxes  and  strains 
yet  expands  and  improves  the  muscle  ;  the  other  with  shame, 
which  depresses  the  energies  that  it  may  refine  them,  and 
humbles  the  pride  that  it  may  waken  the  heart  to  becoming 
sensibilities. 

The  one  retires  from  the  fruitless  interview  sad,  disap 
pointed,  but,  just  in  the  same  degree,  better  prepared  to 
pursue  one  steady  aim  to  right  and  complete  achievement ; 
the  other,  having  her  aim  also,  but  one  of  a  kind  still  further 
to  humble  pride,  awaken  sensibility,  and,  through  agony, 
to  conduct  to  peace  ! 

Very  different  their  objects,  desires,  performances  ;  but 
ooth  working  out  results  for  humanity,  such  as,  in  the  prog 
ress  of  the  life-ordeal,  gradually  inform  society  with  new 
aspects  and  properties  in  man,  and  unfold  the  exactions  of 
a  progress  in  the  ages,  whose  necessities  evolve,  through 
vice  itself,  the  true  conditions  of  all  virtue. 

Shall  they  ever  meet  again,  and  how  ?    Shall  they  realize 


36  BEAUCIlAMPfi. 

the  vague  hopes  and  objects  that  now  persuade  both  minds  ? 
shall  they  ever  become  to  eacli  other  more  than  they  are 
now?  shall  he  attain  greater  triumphs  of  intellect  —  better 
securities  of  the  heart  ?  shalLsAe  find  the  peace  which  she 
yearns  for,  even  more  than  the  wild  justice  which  she  seeks  ? 
will  she  regain  the  wing  of  her  youth  a^id  innocence,  and 
steadily  develop  the  gradual  powers  of  that  ambitious  ge 
nius  which,  in  the  very  daring  and  pride  of  its  aim,  blinded 
her  wholly  to  the  dangers  of  her  flight  ?  We  can  not  pre 
scribe  the  course  and  conditions  of  their  progress :  we  must 
be  content  simply  to  follow,  and  record  them.  They  arc  in 
the  hands  of  a  self-made  destiny,  and  must,  because  of  will, 
and  passion,  and  peculiar  aims,  determine  their  own  fates. 
It  is  not  for  art  to  pass  between,  to  interpose,  to  prevent, 
or  pervert,  or  in  any  way  alter,  the  fortunes  of  those  whose 
own  characters  constitute  the  arbitrary  necessities  govern 
ing  equally  their  lives  and  our  invention. 

Sad,  silent,  full  of  roused  thoughts  and  conflicting  emo 
tions,  Margaret  Cooper  drove  home  to  her  obscure  farm 
stead,  musing  to  herself,  and  murmuring  within  her  soul, 
of  the  past  and  of  the  future. 

That  single  glance  of  an  old  and  rejected  lover --that 
one  imploring  word  from  his  lips  —  smote  on  her  heart  with 
a  sense  of  agonizing  self-reproach.  Her  thoughts,  framed 
into  speech,  might  have  run  as  follow : — 

"  With  him  I  might  have  been  happy.  He  was  young, 
truthful,  honorable.  He  loved  me:  that  I  felt  then  —  that 
1  know  now.  He  would  have  cherished  me  witli  affection, 
as  he  approached  me  with  devotion  !  Yes  !  I  might  have 
been  happy  with  him  !  — 

"  But  I  knew  him  not !  I  undervalued  him.  I  regarded 
him  as  the  obscure  peasant — having  no  high  purpose  —  no 
mind — no  great  thoughts  and  ambitious  fancies  —  such  as 
should  properly  mate  with  mine  ! 

"  Even  in  this  was  I  mistaken  :  He  hau  the  faculties 
but  I  was  not  wise  enough  to  see  them.  I  was  blinded  bj 


PHILOSOPHIES    OF    AGE    AND    YOUTH.  37 

my  own  wandering  visions  —  that  miserable  vanity  which 
relished  no  spectacle  that  did  not  present  me  with  some 
image  of  myself — which,  in  perpetual  self-delusion,  could 
see  nothing  in  the  qualifications  of  another ! 

"  Yet,  how  bravely  and  nobly  did  that  young  man  de 
clare  himself  at  last !  how  wisely  did  he  speak  !  how  clearly 
did  he  see  the  dangers  gathering  about  me  !  how,  with  what 
instinct,  did  he  pierce  the  secret  of  that  cunning  serpent !  — 
while  I,  who  despised  him  for  the  very  humility  of  his  aims 
—  the  very  modesty  of  his  passion — I  could  see  nothing. 
I  was  a  fool !  a  fool !  —  blind,  deaf,  mad  !  But  for  this,  we 
might  have  been  happy  together.  It  might  have  been !  it 
might  have  been ! 

"'Oh,  mournful  word's  !  —  'It  might  have  been !' 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  ! 

"  Love  is  impossible  to  me  now.  The  dream  is  gone '. 
the  hope  —  every  hope!  Even  ambition  is  impossible! 
Alas,  what  a  dream  it  was  !  how  wild,  how  impossible  from 
the  first!  Yet,  I  believed  it  all.  Foul!  fool!  as  if  sucli 
could  be  the  fortune  of  a  woman  !  Here,  too,  in  this  sav 
age  region  of  shadow  and  obscurity,  a  woman  conquering 
position,  high  place,  high  honors,  great  distinction!  And 
I  believed  it  all!  —  believed  him,  that  treacherous  serpent. 
when  he  crept  with  the  subtle,  sweet,  lyinc:  whisper  to  my 
heart!  O  fool!  fool!  fool! 

"But  I  am  awake  now!  I  no  longer  delude  myself! 
Xone  can  delude  me  now ! 

"  Yet,  to  lose  this  so  precious  delusion!  Oh,  the  misery 
of  this  conviction,  for  in  losing  this  I  have  lost  all ! 

"  Yet.  was  it  a  delusion  ?  Could  I  not  have  achieved 
this  distinction  ?  Is  it  true  that  there  is  no  field  for  wo 
man's  genius?  is  it  true  that,  of  all  this  great  country, 
there  is  no  one  region  where  the  wisdom  and  the  inspira 
tion  of  woman  can  compel  faith  and  find  tribute  ?  is  she  to 
be  a  thing  of  base  uses  always,  as  the  malignant  lago  has 
declared  her?  God,  thon  ba^t  not  designed  this — else 


38  BEAUCHAMPE. 

wherefore  hast  thou  given  her  the  will  to  soar,  tlie  faculty 
to  sing,  the  genius  to  conceive,  the  art  to  refine  and  beau 
tify,  the  sensibilities  which  make  the  beautiful  her  dream 
and  her  necessity  .alike ! 

"  It  is  a  mystery — a  mystery  !  • 

"  And  I  am  hopeless  !  lost !  lost !  All  lost — lost  to  all ! 
Nothing  left  me  but — " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  ;  she  shuddered.  The 
terrible  images,  thronging  about  the  one  vindictive  passion 
which  her  soul  now  entertained  and  fostered,  seemed  to 
gather  before  her  eyes,  and  she  covered  them  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  fearful  spectacle.  She  murmured  audibly,  after  a 
brief  pause : — 

"  I  would  I  had  not  seen  William  Hinkley  to-day  !  The 
sight  of  him  has  weakened  me.  His  voice  seems  to  ring 
even  now  so  mournfully  in  my  ears  — '  Margaret !' 

"How  often  have  I  heard  that  name  upon  his  lips  —  so 
tenderly  —  so  pleadingly  always— with  so  much  sweetness 
and  humility ! 

"I  despised  him  then.  I  looked  down  upon  him  then  — 
with  scorn  —  with  contempt.  0  Margaret,  Margaret!  and 
thou  darest  not  look  upon  him  now  !  Shame,  shame  !  my 
cheek  burns  with  shame,  as  1  think  of  him,  and  remember 
the  calling  of  his  voice. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  we  might  have  been  happy  together ! 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  !     I  can  be  happy  no  more  !" 

We  need  not  listen  any  longer  to  these  mournful  memo 
ries  of  ruined  hopes  and  lost  honors,  defeated  ambition,  de 
frauded  affection,  bitter  self-reproach,  and  still-sleepless 
and  ever-goading  passions.  We  need  not  follow  her  to  the 
obscure  retreat  where  she  has  striven  for  five  dreary  years 
to  bury  out  of  sight  the  secret  of  her  shame.  Enough  that 
we  have  put  on  record  the  condition  of  her  moods — her 
broken  spirit,  her  almost  purposeless  intellect,  and  the  one 
hope  —  the  only  one  —  which  she  seems  to  entertain.  These 
will  suffice  as  clues  for  the  future,  showing  the  motif,  the 


PHILOSOPHIES   OF    AGE   AND    YOUTH.  39 

key-note,  of  much  that  prevails  in  the  melancholy  history 
which  follows. 

Let  us  return  to  the  young  man  whose  disappointment 
we  have  just  witnessed.  He,  too,  as  we  have  seen,  has  hia 
griefs  and  trials  ;  but,  unlike  hers,  they  are  not  of  a  sort  to 
bring  humiliation  in  their  train. 

When  he  found  his  pursuit  was  vain,  and  when  the  last 
faint  echoes  of  the  receding  carriage-wheels  came  to  his 
ears,  he  clasped  his  hands  spasmodically  together. 

"  She  would  not  see  me  !  she  would  not  even  speak  with 
me !  She  feels  the  old  scorn  ;  she  knows  not  that  I  am  no 
longer  the  obscure  peasant  that  she  knew  me  once !" 

Foolish  youth !  as  if  the  fact,  even  if  known  to  her,  that 
he  had  won  successes,  and  was  glowing  with  the  prospects 
and  promises  of  fame,  would  have  made  her  more  tolerant 
of  his  presence. 

It  was  shame,  not  scorn,  which  made  her  fly  from  that 
meeting. 

It  was  a  wild  and  stifling  sense  of  agonizing  humility 
that  made  her  wave  him  off,  in  despair,  as  one  of  the  most 
knowing  witnesses  of  her  fall  from  the  proud  heights  where 
he  had  once  loved^to  behold  and  do  her  honor. 

Scorn  now  for  him,  on  the  part  of  Margaret  Cooper,  was 
impossible.  It  was  fear,  shame,  horror,  terror — nay,  a 
sense  of  justice,  and  a  new  feeling  of  respect,  if  not  rever 
ence — that  made  her  shrink  before  his  face. 

Brooding  sadly  upon  his  disappointment,  with  bewilder 
ing  thoughts  and  conflicting  feelings,  the  young  man  slowly 
made  his  way  back  through  the  valley  of  Charlcmont,  going 
unconsciously  among  the  deeertcd  dwellings,  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  heights  where  he  had  left  his  venerable  compac- 
ion.  As  he  passed  the  schoolhouse,  he  heard  the  voice  of 
the  senior  calling  to  him  from  the  shade  of  the  great  oaks 
by  which  it  was  overhung. 

lie  joined  him  in  silence. 

The  old  man  was  sitting  upon  the  turf  beneath  the  trees. 


10  BEAUCHAMPE. 

a  thoughtful  smile  upon  his  countenance.  Ho  was  once 
more  in  the  well-remembered  places  in  which  so  many  years 
of  his  life  had  been  spent.  Here  he  had  himself  mused 
and  meditated,  from  a  safe  distance,  the  capricious  changes 
and  frauds  of  busy  life  among  the  crowd.  Here  he  had 
given  the  first  lessons,  in  the  humanities,  to  the  young 
man  who  now  made  his  way  in  silence  and  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"  Well,"  said  the  elder,  "  did  you  overtake  her,  Wil 
liam  ?" 

"  You  saw  her,  then  ?"  was  the  indirect  reply. 

u  Yes,  1  saw  a  female,  in  widow's  weeds,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  She  disappeared  among  the  rocks  in  an  instant 
after.  I  concluded,  from  the  wild  haste  of  your  movement, 
that  you  had  recognised  her  as  Margaret  Cooper.  Was  I 
right  ?" 

"  Yes !" 

"  Did  you  speak  with  her  ?" 

"  No,  sir;  she  fled  from  me  —  waved  me  off  as  I  called 
to  her,  and  disappeared  in  the  thicket.  When  I  succeeded 
in  getting  round  the  lake  where  I  saw  her,  she  was  gone. 
1  could  just  catch  the  sounds  of  carriage-wheels.  She  still 
scorns  or  hates  me  as  much  as  ever." 

"  She  does  neither,  my  son.  On  this  subject  you  seem  to 
lose  all  your  usual  powers  of  reasoning.  Margaret  Cooper 
would  not  see,  or  speak  with  you,  from  very  shame  and  hu 
miliation.  Why  should  she  speak  with  you  V  Have  you 
anything  of  a  pleasant  kind  to  communicate  to  each  other  ? 
Why  should  sho  see  you  ?  To  be  reminded  only  of  a  his 
tory  full  of  mortification  to  her !  You  are  unreasonable, 
my  son." 

The  other  had  no  answer. 

"And  now,  TPilliam,  pray  tell  me  why  you  desired  to 
see  her.  You  have,  no  doubt,  some  of  your  old  feelings 
for  her ;  but  is  it  really  in  your  thought  to  marry  Margaret 
Cooper?" 


PHILOSOPHIES   OF   AGE   AND    YOUTH.  41 

"  Oh,  no,  sir! —  no!  How  could  you  suppose  such  a 
thing  ?'' 

"  I  do  not  suppose  such  a  thing,  and  therefore  I  say  that 
you  are  very  unreasonable,  nay,  more,  unkind  and  cruel,  in 
your  attempt  to  see  her.  You  have  no  business  with  her  ; 
you  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  you  can  help  her  in 
any  way ;  and  your  passion  for  her — whatever  of  it  now 
remains  —  is  not  such  as  to  prompt  you  to  make  her  your 
wife.  You  obeyed  only  a  youthful  impulse  in  desiring  to 
see  her,  without  reflecting  upon  the  cruelty  of  the  proceed 
ing.  It  was  this  blind  impulse  only ;  for  I  know  you  too 
well  to  think  that  you  would  be  thus  moved  by  a  merely 
wanton,  and,  in  respect  to  her,  a  cruel  curiosity." 

"  You  are  right,  sir.  It  was  a  blind  impulse.  I  am  a 
boy  still.  I  shall  never  be  wise." 

"  Nay !  nay  !  you  do  yourself  wrong.  If  to  be  wise  re 
quired  that  we  should  never  be  wrong — should  never  feel 
an  impulse,  and  in  the  moment  obey  it — I  should  agree  with 
you,  and  argue  against  your  intellect  and  moral  with  your 
self.  But,  you  are  simply  young,  ardent,  sensitive,  with  a 
free  gush  of  blood  from  the  heart  to  the  brain,  such  as  time 
and  training  only  will  enable  you  to  regulate.  We  must 
learn  to  wait  on  youth.  All  in  due  season.  It  is  enough 
for  me  to  see  that  you  are  in  the  right  course,  generally, 
though  sometimes,  like  a  young  and  fiery  Arabian,  you  bolt 
the  track.  But,  the  present  opportunity  for  a  lesson  must 
not  be  foregone.  I  hope  that  you  will  never  again  repeat 
this  cruelty  to  this  unhappy  woman.  She  has  shown  you 
always,  as  well  in  the  day  of  her  pride  as  in  that  of  her 
shame,  that  she  does  not  sympathize  with  your  affections. 
You  yourself  admit  that,  even  were  she  to  do  so,  you  could 
never  offer  yourself  to  her  in  marriage.  She  has  in  no  way 
given  you  to  believe  that  she  needs  your  services  either  as 
man  or  lawyer.  We  know  that,  though  in  moderate  cir 
cumstances,  she  needs  no  succor  in  money.  Now,  on  what 
pretence  of  reason  would  you  seek  to  see  her  ?  What  pro 


42  .-  EEAUCHAMPE. 

text  of  humanity,  or  law,  of  manhood,  or  sympathy  of  any 
sort,  can  be  urged  for  your  thrusting  yourself  upon  a  per 
son  who  distinctly  shows  you  that  she  desires  no  commu 
nion  with  you.  I  repeat,  she  does  not  scorn  or  hate  you, 
William,  but  the  meeting  with  you  must  necessarily  be  pain 
ful  to  her.  Why  should  you  inflict  this  pain  ?" 

"  No  more,  sir,  please  say  no  more.  I  will  not  err  in 
this  manner  again." 

The  young  man  spoke  with  a  choking  effort,  and  his  head 
hung  down,  and  a  great  drop  fell  from  his  eyes. 

"  Impulse,  by  a  law  of  nature,  is  necessarily  a  selfishness. 
Our  duty,  for  this  reason  is  to  curb  it.  Impulse  rarely  al 
lows  us  to  recognise  the  rights  of  others,  their  situation  or 
their  sensibilities.  It  is  humanity  only,  that  requires  that 
we  should  set  reason  on  perpetual  watch,  as  a  good  house 
dog,  to  see  that  this  outlaw,  impulse,  does  not  break  down 
the  door,  and  break  into  the  close,  to  the  terror,  if  not  the 
destruction,  of  the  trembling  flock  within." 

"  Enough  on  this  head,  sir.     I  will  not  err  again." 

"Another,  my  son,  of  quite  as  much  importance  to  your 
self  and  of  even  more  importance  to  others.  You  have 
chosen  a  profession.  A  profession,  once  chosen,  consti 
tutes  a  pledge  to  the  Deity  for  the  proper  working  out  of 
your  human  purposes,  and  the  exercise  of  your  peculiar 
gifts.  Passions,  and  fancies,  and  desires,  which  keep  us 
away  from  our  duties  —  which  make  us  work  sluggishly  at 
them,  and  without  proper  sympathy  and  energy,  are  in 
dulged  sinfully.  You  must  fight  against  them,  Willie. 
You  must  not  only  give  up  the  pursuit  of  Margaret  Cooper 
— as  I  know  you  will  —  but  you  must  give  up  the  very 
thought  of  her." 

"  How  is  that  possible  ?" 

"  It  is  possible.  It  must  be  done.  You  have  but  to  re 
solve,  Willie  ;  and  be  equally  resolved  upon  the  law  !  You 
must  give  up  Eros,  and  all  the  tributary  muses  of  that  god. 


PHILOSOPHIES   OP   AGE    AND    YOUTH.  4« 

They  still  too  much  employ  your  thought.     Look  at  what  1 
copied  last  night  from  the  fly  leaf  of  your  docket." 

The  senior  produced  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  in  somewhat 
lackadaisacal  accents,  read  the  following  verses:  — 

SING     NOT     OF     FAME. 

I. 

"  Sing  not  of  Fame  !     There  was  a  time 
Such  song  had  suited  well  mine  ear, 
When  passion  had  sought,  perchance  through  crime, 

Ambition's  laurelled  pomps  to  wear; 
The  wild  desire,  th'  impetuous  thirst, 
The  wing  to  soar,  the  will  to  sway, 
Had  led  me  on,  through  fields  accurst, 
On  all  life's  precious  things  to  prey. 
Sing  not  of  Fame. 

ii. 
"  Oh !  rather  sing  of  lonely  hours, 

And  sleepless  nights  and  mournful  sighs, 
When  on  his  couch  of  blasted  flowers, 
Despair  looks  up  with  loathing  eyes; 
In  vain,  with  visions  straining  far, 

Hope  seeks  dear  shape  and  baffled  dream ; 
And  wandering  on,  from  star  to  star, 
Finds  mockery  in  each  golden  gleam. 
Sing  not  of  fame  I" 

"  Now,  Willie,  these  are  what  the  newspapers  would  caii 
very  good  verses ;  nay,  there  are  some  moralists,  even  in 
the  pulpit,  who,  regarding  the  one  proposition  only,  which 
rebukes  ambition,  would  hold  them  to  contain  very  proper 
sentiments.  Yet  they  are  all  wrong." 

"  Oh  !  sir,  waste  no  more  words  upon  such  a  therne.  It 
is  a  poor  trifle.  I  did  not  mean  that  you  should  see  it. 
Give  it  me,  sir,  or  tear  it  up  if  you  please." 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  will  do  neither,  Willie.  They  will  better 
represent  my  sentiment  than  yours.  It  is  for  him  whose 
own  struggles  of  ambition  have  resulted  in  vanities,  to  de 
clare  ambition  itself  a  vanity ;  but  if  it  be  such,  it  is  one 
which  is  at  once  natural  and  of  the  best  uses  to  humanity. 
Were  it  not  for  ambition,  ours  would  be  a  brute  world 


44  BEAUCHAMPE. 

merely.  There  would  be  little  in  life,  worth  more  than  a 
good  grazing  patch  to  a  hungry  buffalo.  It  is  ambition  that 
puts  in  exercise  all  the  agencies  of  art  and  civilization.  It 
is  ambition  that  sires  all  public  virtues.  I  do  not  now 
mean  that  poor  drivelling  vanity,  which  foolish  people  call 
ambition,  but  that  glorious  builder  and  destroyer,  who  makes 
great  empires,  and  achieves  great  results,  and  wrestles  and 
toils  for  the  victory,  and  is  never  so  well  satisfied  as  in  the 
toil  and  the  conflict,  without  one  moment  considering  the 
results  to  self.  Its  presence  implies  strength  for  achieve 
ment,  courage  to  dare  new  paths,  enthusiasm  to  sustain 
against  defeat,  power  to  conceive  and  create  agencies,  and 
art  to  work  out  all  the  processes  of  great  and  bold  and 
novel  performance.  This  is  my  notion  of  ambition,  and  the 
fame  which  follows,  or  should  follow  such  performances,  is 
a  legitimate  object  of  human  desire  —  but  only  where  the 
endowment  really  exists." 

"  Ah,  sir,  this  brings  me  to  my  particular  trouble,  and, 
no  doubt,  justifies  the  sentiment  of  my  ballad.  What  if  I 
really  lack  the  endowments  which,  alone,  have  the  right  to 
crave  the  laurel  ?  It  is  your  affectionate  interest,  alone,  I 
fear,  which  holds  them  to  be  in  my  possession." 

"  Not  so,  my  son.  I  have  no  doubts  of  your  possessions 
— nay,  have  little  of  the  use  which  you  are  destined  to 
make  of  them.  I  know,  too,  that  your  song  is  but  the  fruit 
of  a  temporary  despondency  —  the  voice  of  a  momentary 
mood,  in  which  the  sensitive  nature  rather  rests  herself 
than  desponds.  We  are  all  more  or  less  liable  to  these  fits 
of  despondency,  and  they  have  their  uses.  They  fling  the 
mind  back  upon  the  heart,  and  contribute  to  check  its  fro- 
ward  tendencies.  They  counsel  due  caution  and  humility 
to  progress.  They  teach  modesty  to  conquest.  1  do  not 
i'ear  them  in  your  case,  though  I  counsel  you  against  teo 
greai:  indulgence  of  them.  You  would  feel  them  even  if 
you  had  never  been  denied  by  Margaret  Cooper.  They  are 
signs,  in  fact,  of  the  ambitious  nature  which  thus  deplores 


PHILOSOPHIES    OF    AGE    AND    YOUTH.  45 

Its  own  slow  progress.  But  too  much  encouraged  —  and 
they  have  their  beguiling  attractions  to  a  nature  such  aa 
yours  —  they  are  apt  to  enfeeble.  They  encourage  revery, 
which  is  always  a  dangerous  pleasure,  as  it  induces  inac 
tion.  In  our  world,  the  d  jmands  of  society  require  sleep 
less  activity  and  vigilance.  If  we  pause  too  long  for  rest 

—  if  \ve  too  much  dream  —  we  wake  tafind  some  other  per 
son  in  possession  of  our  conquests.     You  arc  now  with 
hand  upon  the  plough,  and  there  must  be  no  misgiving — 
no  hesitation.     To-morrow,   as  Milton  hath  it — '  to  fresh 
fields  and  pastures  new.'     And  you  will  feel  this  new  im 
pulse  to-morrow.     You  will  forget  your  disappointment  of 
heart — I  should  say  fancy  rather  —  in  fresh  motives  to 
struggle.     You  will  one  day  wonder,  indeed,  that  Margaret 
Cooper  should  have  been  so  dear  to  you." 

u  Never !   never !" 

"  Ay,  but  you  will,  and  forget  her  beauties  and  charms, 
her  bold  talent  and  commanding  nature,  in  still  superior 
attractions." 

The  youth  shook  his  head  with  mournful  denial. 

"  So  will  it  be,  Willie.  That  the  boy  should  love  at  sev 
enteen  or  eighteen  —  that  he  should  insist  upon  loving  at 
that  period  —  nay,  fancy  the  charms  which  inspire  passion 

—  is  his  absolute  necessity.     But  the  passion  of  this  period 
is  still  but  a  boy  passion  only.     His  heart  will  rarely  be 
touched  by  it.     I  would  not  have  your  passion  absorbed  by 
your  ambition.    I  would  only  use  the  one  passion  to  restrain 
and  regulate  the  choice  of  the  other.     Do  you  suppose  that 
God  lias  made  us  so  inflexible  that  but  one  woman  in  all  the 
world  should  satisfy  the  longings  of  the  heart  ?     If  so,  and 
you  never  should  meet  with  this  one  woman  ?     Besides,  do 
you  not  see  how  perfectly  childish  it  is  to  suppose,  at  twenty 
five —  when  youth  is  all  vigor;  when  every  muscle  is  a 
conscious  power  ;  when  the  heart  and  head  are  full  of  pow 
ers  ;  all  demanding  exercise ;  when  the  fancy  is  on  per 
petual  wing ;   when  the  imagination  daily  communes  with 


46  BEAUCHAMPE. 

some  ideal,  bringing  out  the  wing  into  the  sunshine — how 
childish  then  to  fancy  that  life  can  be  without  purposes,  and 
hope  no  longer  a  thing  of  aim,  filled  with  generous  desires  ! 
Your  ballad,  as  I  have  said,  declares  only  for  a  temporary 
mood  which  another  day  will  dissipate.  You  have  only 
read  too  much  of  Byron.  This  mood  was  his  role.  It  was 
at  once  true  and  false.  True,  as  it  illustrated  a  temporary 
mood  ;  false, as  it  insisted  upon  this  mood  as  a  fatality;  ma 
king  that  a  life,  which  was  only  a  passing  cloud  over  the 
face  of  life." 

The  subject  had  led  the  old  man  on  much  farther  than 
he  had  designed.  The  youth  submitted  patiently  to  his 
ancient  teacher.  It  was  thus  that  his  youth  had  been  les- 
coned  :  thus  that  his  heart  and  fancy  had  been  trained ;  so 
that,  with  all  his  seeming  impulse  and  despondency,  his 
aims  were  really  more  in  harmony  with  his  powers,  than  is 
usually  the  case  with  most  young  men. 

We  have  dwelt  longer  upon  this  sort  of  teaching  than 
is  necessary  to  our  story — as  a  story.  But  we  have  had 
our  object  in  our  desire  for  the  proper  characterization  of 
both  parties.  The  novel  only  answers  half  its  uses  when 
we  confine  it  to  the  simple  delineation  of  events,  however 
ingenious  and  interesting. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  in  the  dialogue,  when  the  elder, 
without  leaving  the  subject  of  conversation,  presented  it  to 
his  young  companion's  mood  through  another  medium. 
He  had  his  objects,  we  may  say,  ill  thus  familiarizing  the 
mind  of  the  youth  with  the  annoying  topic.  Could  he  trans 
fer  the  case  from  the  courts  of  the  affections  to  those  of  the 
brain — we  do  not  mean  to  say,  from  the  lower  to  the  upper 
courts — he  felt  that  he  should  work  very  considerably 
toward  the  relief  of  moods  which  were  a  little  too  much  in 
dulged  in  for  propriety,  and,  perhaps,  safety. 

"  It  is  somewhat  surprising,  William,  that  Margaret 
Cooper  never  once  detec  ed  your  sympathies  with  poetry, 
and  your  own  occasional  wooings  of  the  muse.  Had  she 


PHILOSOPHIES   OF   AGE    AND    YOUTH.  17 

done  so,  it  would,  I  think,  have  greatly  helped  your  woo- 
ings  of  herself.    Did  you  ever  show  her  any  of  your  verses  ?" 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  And  you  never  once,  I  suspect,  betrayed  any  desire  to 
see  her  verses  ?" 

"  Never,  sir  !     I  thought  only  of  her." 

"  Had  you  been  a  worldling,  William,  with  a  better 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  woman  nature,  you  might 
have  been  more  successful.  Alfred  Stevens  knew  better. 
He  simply  held  the  mirror  before  the  eyes  of  her  vanity, 
lie  showed  her  her  own  portrait  even  as  she  desired  to  see 
it — as  she  was  accustomed  to  see  it.  He  pleased  \\exwith 
herself.  He  confirmed  her  notions  of  herself.  He  gave 
his  sympathies  to  her  ambition,  and  never  troubled  himself 
about  her  affections,  which  he  soon  discovered  were  prop 
erly  approachable  only  through  her  ambition.  The  great 
secret  of  conquest  over  such  persons  is  to  become  a  neces 
sary  minister  to  their  most  passionate  desires.  The  devil 
worked  thus  cunningly  with  Eve.  lie  works,  in  this  very 
wise,  with  all  our  passions.  You  might  have  succeeded  as 
Stevens  did,  had  you  been  a  student  of  humanity  —  had  you 
been  capable  of  the  painful  study  of  its  weaknesses,  and 
willing  to  descend  to  the  mean  occupation  of  stimulating 
them  into  excesses.  This  poor  girl  lived  only  in  her  am 
bition.  Her  affections  were  all  bonded  to  her  brain.  This 
made  her  bold  —  made  her  confident  of  strength.  She  did 
not  fear  her  affections  —  she  did  not  crave  sympathy  for 
them.  She  could  only  do  so,  after  her  full  from  place  and 
purity.  Had  your  sympathies  been  given  to  her  intellect, 
and  had  you  shown  her  your  capacity  to  sympathize  fully 
with,  and  appreciate  the  objects  of  her  own  desire,  you 
could  have  won  all  the  affections  that  she  was  able  to  be 
stow.  You  would  be  more  successful  m  pursuit  now." 

"  But  you  can  not  think,  sir,  that  I  have  now  any  pur 
pose — any  wish -" 

He  paused. 


48  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  No  !  that  is  impossible  now,  I  know.  Your  own  pride, 
your  own  ambition,  if  nothing  else,  would  preserve  you  from 
any  such  desire.  I  am  speaking,  now,  only  of  the  natural 
change  in  her,  such  as  her  changed  condition  necessarily 
works.  In  her  fall,  her  mind  became  humanized.  Her 
heart  is  even  purer,  and  truer  now,  in  its  shame — has  more 
vitality,  more  sensibility,  more  delicacy,  more  sympathy 
with  the  really  true  and  good  —  than  she  had  when  her  name 
was  without  spot.  .  Margaret  Cooper  did  not  fall  through 
vicious  inclinations,  but  a  wilful  pride.  I  regard  her  as 
far  more  really  virtuous,  now  —  as  now  conscious  of  the 
value  of  virtuous  sympathies  —  conscious,  in  other  words, 
of  a  heart-development — than  she  was  in  the  day  of  her 
insolent  pride,  when  her  vanity  stood  unrebuked  by  any 
consciousness  of  lapse  or  weakness.  The  humility  which 
follows  shame  is  one  of  the  handmaids  employed  to  conduct 
to  virtue." 

And  thus,  resting  upon  the  hill-side,  and  looking  down 
upon  that  ruined  hamlet,  age  and  youth  discoursed  of  the 
past,  as  if  life  had  no  future.  But  the  future  hath  its  germ 
in  the  past,  and  the  present  is  a  central  point  of  survey, 
from  which  the  wise  may  behold  both  oceans.  We  shall  see, 
in  our  progress,  what  was  the  result  of  this  serious  dis 
course,  which  places  in  our  hands  certain  of  the  clues  to  the 
tale  which  follows — which  sounds  the  preluding  notes,  and 
prepares  us,  in  some  degree,  for  the  social  tragedy  which 
the  rude  chronicle  of  the  border-historian  has  yielded  to 
the  purposes  of  art. 

The  sun  was  rapidly  passing  down  the  slope  of  heaven. 
The  valley  of  Charlemont  began  to  look  colder  and  darker 
in  the  eyes  of  our  two  companions.  They  had  turned  aside 
from  their  appointed  road  to  take  a  last  look,  and  a  final 
farewell  of  the  old-remembered  places.  This  done,  they 
prepared  to  depart.  In  another  hour  they  were  slowly 
riding  through  tne  paths  of  the  forest,  directing  their  course 
for  the  duelling  of  Edward  HinkJey  »  cousin  of  William, 


PHILOSOPHIES    OP    AGE    AND    YOUTH.  49 

who  was  now  a  thriving-  young  farmer,  in  a  beautiful  tract 
of  country,  some  twelve  miles  farther  on.  While  they  sat 
at  his  cheerful  fireside  that  night,  they  discoursed  of  every 
thing  but  their  mournful  visit,  and  the  encounter  that  day 
with  Margaret  Cooper.  Her  name  was  not  once  mentioned 
in  William's  presence.  Ned's  fiddle  enlivened  the  family 
circle  after  supper,  and  while  the  buoyant  young  man 
played  for  his  sombre  cousin,  and  tho  more  ancient  guest, 
the  thought  of  William  wandered  off  to  the  unknown  dwel 
ling  of  Margaret. 

Where  was  she  then  ?  How  employed  ?  With  what 
hopes,  in  what  condition  ? 

Could  he  have  seen  her  brooding  that  night  over  the  meet 
ing  of  that  day  !  Could  he  have  heard  her  mournful  exclama 
tions  of  self-reproach — seen  with  what  dreary  aspect,  she 
mused  on  the  terrible  words:  "  Too  late  —  too  late!"  his 
sympathies  would  have  made  him  forgetful  of  all  the  coun 
sels  of  his  venerable  friend.  As  it  was,  he  heard  but  little 
of  his  cousin's  violin.  The  gay  sounds  were  lost  upon  hia 
senses.  His  revery  depicted  still  mournfully  enough, 
though  inadequately,  the  condition  of  the  unhappy  woman, 
isolated  by  her  own  intellect  as  by  her  aefeat  and  shame. 
There  she  sat,  in  her  own  lonely  chamber,  with  but  one 
companion  —  the  muse — brooding  over  her  fate  until  the 
gloomy  thought  took  the  form  of  verse  —  the  only  process 
left  her  by  which  to  relieve  the  over-burdened  brain.  We 
shall  assert  a  privilege  denied  to  William,  and  look  over 
her  as  she  writes.  -Her  verses,  singularly  masculine  a*? 
well  as  mournful,  will  constitute  a  sufficient  and  appro 
priate  prelude,  to  the  sequel  of  her  unhappy  story. 

"  'Tis  meet  that  self-abandoned  I  should  bo, 
Whom  all  things  do  abandon  !    Where  is  Death  1 
I  call  upon  the  rocks  and  on  the  sea : 
The  rocks  subside  —  the  waters  backward  flee  — 
The  storm  degenerates  to  the  zephyr's  breath, 
And  even  the  vapors  of  the  swamp  deny 


50  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Their  poison  !    Jt  is  vain  that  I  would  die ! 

Earth  hath  not  left  one  charity  for  me ! 

Fate  takes  no  shape  to  fright  me  —  none  to  save, 

Or  stifle,  and  I  live  as  in  a  grave 

Where  only  death  is  wanting. 

Oh !  the  gall, 

And  bitter  of  a  life  where  this  is  all ! 
Where  one  can  neither  drink,  nor  dream,  nor  choke. 
And  freedom's  self  is  but  a  bond  and  yoke, 
And  breath  and  sight  denial ! 

Why  the  light, 

When  the  life's  hope  is  sightless  ?    Why  the  bloom. 
When  naught  of  flavor's  left  upon  the  taste  ? 
Why  beauty,  when  the  earth  refuses  sight, 
Leaving  all  goodliest  things  to  go  to  waste  ?  — 
And  why  not  Death  when  Life's  itself  a  tomb !" 


LAW   IN   DESHABILLE. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

LAW    IN    DESHABILLE, 

"  Fun  is  your  true  philosophy  :  the  laugh 
Still  speaks  the  winning  wisdom." 


WITH  change  of  scene,  we  change  the  nature  of  the  ac 
tion.  Life  shows  us  hourly  all  the  rapid  transitions  of  the 
kaleidoscope :  now  we  share  the  bright,  now  the  dark  ; 
now  the  scintillating  gleams  of  a  thousand  tiny  sparklers, 
in  wreaths,  and  roses,  stars,  and  beautiful  twinings,  that 
seem  as  endless  iii  variety  of  form  as  color  —  and  anon  the 
cold  formality  of  cross  and  square,  and  the  solemn  signifi 
cance  of  the  perpetual  circle,  which  leaves  the  eye  no 
salient  beauty  upon  which  to  rest.  The  youth  weeps  to 
day,  with  a  grief  that  seems  altogether  too  hard  to  bear  ; 
and  lie  laughs  to-morrow  with  a  joy  that  seems  as  wild, 
and  capricious,  and  as  full  of  levity  and  hum,  as  the 
Life  in  the  little  body  of  a  humming-bird.  And  so,  we  pass, 
I er  saltern,  from  gay  to  grave,  from  lively  to  severe,  and  if 
reason  be  the  question,  in  either  change,  with  quite  as  lit 
tle  justification  in  any !  We  are  creatures  of  a  caprice 
which  might  be  held  monstrously  immoral  and  improper, 
were  it  not  that  caprice  is  just  as  essential  to  the  elasticity 
and  tone  of  humanity,  as  it  is  to  the  birds  and  breezes. 

But,  whatever,  the  changing  phase  of  the  mood  and  the 
moment,  the  motif  of  the  performance  is  the  same.  We 
get  back,  all  of  us,  to  the  old  places  in  our  circle.  We  set 


62  BEAUCHAMI'E. 

oar  figures  in  our  drama,  and  they  laugh  or  weep,  droop 
or  dance,  are  sad  or  merry,  as  the  case  may  be  ;  but  never 
materially,  or  for  any  length  of  time,  to  baffle  the  fates, 
which  are  just  as  arbitrary  in  the  world  of  art,  as  in  that  of 
humanity.  If  therefore,  we,  who  have  so  recently  been 
dwelling  on  very  gloomy  topics  —  presenting  only  dark  and 
sombre,  and  even  savage  aspects  to  the  mirror — now  show 
ourselves  in  quite  other  characters  and  costume,  this  is  no 
fault  in  us,  nor  does  it  conflict  with  the  absolute  law  in  our 
progress.  That  is  written,  as  indelibly  as  were  the  laws 
of  Mede  and  Persian,  and  the  decrees  of  court  undergo  no 
fluctuation,  though  there  may  be  a  burst  of  mistimed  mer 
riment  during  the  course  of  the  trial.  The  change  of  scene 
will  make  a  difference — change  of  costume,  and  the  intro 
duction  of  new  characters.  Besides,  as  we  have  already 
gravely  taught,  the  moods  of  mind  have  no  permanent  in 
fluence,  or  but  very  little,  on  the  real  nature,  the  true  char 
acter  of  the  subject,  which  has  its  own  atmosphere,  and 
tends  inevitably  to  decreed  results,  which,  to  be  legitimate, 
must  be  systematic  throughout,  and  arbitrary  in  all  their 
workings.  We  can  not  help  it,  if,  while  the  mournful  pro 
cession  is  in  progress  to  the  grave,  and  the  bolt  strikes 
down  the  noble,  and  the  gloomy  pall  hides  the  bright  and 
beautiful  from  loving  eyes — if  fools  laugh  the  while,  and 
the  cold,  the  base,  the  cruel,  pursue  each  their  several  lit 
tle,  sneaking,  scoundrelly  purposes,  working  against  the 
sweetest  humanities  of  life  and  culture  ! 

With  this  caveat  against  any  mistakes  of  assumption,  we 
raise  the  curtain  upon  other  scenes  and  characters. 

The  city  of  Frankfort,  in  the  noble  state  of  Kentucky  > 
is  very  beautifully  situated  upon  the  banks  of  the  river  of 
that  name.  It  is  overlooked  by  a  cluster  of  steep  hills,  but 
occupies  an  elevation  of  its  own,  at  a  point  where  the  rivei 
curves  gracefully  before  it,  in  a  crescent  figure.  The  city 
itself,  of  moderate  dimensions  at  the  period  of  which  we 
write,  is  a  capital ;  handsomely  built,  laid  out  in  rectangu- 


LAW    IN    DESHABILLE.  53 

lar  sections,  and  presenting,  altogether,  a  view  at  once 
pleasing  and  promising,  scanned  from  any  of  the  numer 
ous  eminences  which  look  down  upon  it.  A  place,  now,  of 
considerable  opulence,  and  tolerably  large  population,  it 
was  even  then  distinguished  by  its  numerous  men  of  talent 
and  people  of  fashion.  Of  the  former,  at  this  and  suoso- 
querit  periods,  it  has  furnished  to  the  Union  abundant 
proofs ;  of  the  latter,  the  charm  will  be  remembered  with 
freshening  interest,  by  all  who  have  ever  enjoyed  the  grace 
and  hospitality  of  its  society. 

Upon  the  resources  of  this  young  and  promising  capital, 
however,  it  is  not  our  purpose  to  dwell.  We  are  permitted 
to  glance  at  its  circles  only,  and  to  detach,  from  the  great 
body  of  the  community,  a  few  only  of  its  members,  and  such 
of  its  haunts  only  as  can  but  imperfectly  illustrate  its  vir 
tues.  We  proceed  to  introduce  them. 

The  reader  will  please  suppose  himself  for  the  time, 
within  one  of  those  dark,  obscure  tabernacles — sanctuaries 
dare  we  call  them? — which,  in  the  silent,  narrow  streets 
and  portions  of  a  city  which  are  usually  most  secluded  from 
the  uproarious  clamors  of  trade,  have  been  commonly  as 
signed  to,  or  rather  chosen  by,  the  professors  of  the  law, 
in  which  to  carry  on  their  mysteries  in  appropriate  places 
of  concealment.  Like  the  huge  spiders  to  which  the  satirist 
has  so  frequently  likened  them,  these  grave  gentlemen 
have  always  exhibited  a  most  decided  preference  for  retreats 
in  dismal  and  dusty  corners.  They  seem  to  find  a  moral 
likeness  for  the  craft  in  the  antique,  the  obscure,  and  the 
intricate  ;  and  with  a  natural  propriety !  They  seem  to 
shrink,  with  a  peculiar  modesty,  from  the  externally  attrac 
tive,  the  open,  the  transparent,  and  the  graceful ;  as  calcu 
lated  to  attract  too  curious  eyes,  if  not  admiration  ;  and 
whether  it  is  that  their  veneration  for  the  profession  de 
mands  the  nicest  preservation  of  the  antiquities  which  it  so 
loves  to  enshrine  and  cherish,  even  after  their  uses  have 
utterly  departed,  or  whether  it  is  that  the  wisdom 


64  BEAUCHAMPE. 

they  practise,  is  of  the  owl-like  sort  which  will  tolerate  no 
excess  of  light,  it  is  very  certain  that  you  will  find  them 
always  in  the  most  dingy  and  out-of-the-way  dwellings, 
in  the  most  dismal  and  obscure  lanes  and  crannies  of  a 
city.  The  moral  usually  determines  the  externals.  It 
would  seem,  among  most  of  the  practitioners  whom  it  is  my 
fortune  to  kno\v,  that  anything  like  a  conspicuous  situation, 
and  neat,  well-fitted,  and  cleanlily-painted  rooms,  would 
incur  the  reproach  of  professional  dandyism.  These  might 
argue,  perhaps,  against  the  profundity,  the  gravity,  the  dig 
nity,  the  obscurity,  of  the  sage  professor.  They  might  break 
the  effect  of  that  Burleigh  nod  which  means  so  much,  arid 
is  of  such  prodigious  emphasis,  so  long  as  the  shaker  of  the 
head  shows  nothing  else,  and  keeps  as  dumb  as  dark ! 
Such  is  the  prescriptive  necessity  of  these  externals,  that 
you  will  rarely  happen  upon  the  young  student  who  will 
readily  fall  into  the  levities  of  clean  lodging,  decent  exte 
rior,  and  a  modern-looking  set  of  chambers. 

The  office  to  which  we  now  repair,  is  one  which  evidently 
belongs  to  a  veteran ;  one,  at  least,  who  knows  what  are 
the  excellent  effects  upon  the  vulgar  superstition,  of  the 
rust  and  dust  of  antiquity.  If  ever  dirt  and  dismals  could 
make  any  one  spot  more  sacred  than  another,  in  the  eyes 
of  a  grave  and  learned  lawyer  —  who  understands  the  full 
value  of  mere  externals,  and  of  authority  upon  the  vulgar 
mind  —  this  was  the  place.  Here  dullness  was  sainted; 
obscurity  jealously  insured  and  protected  ;  dust  consecrated 
to  sacred  uses  and  respect ;  and  law  preserved  in  maxims 
which  it  would  be  worse  than  heresy  to  question.  Here, 
darkness  and  doubt  were  honored  things ;  and  mere  accu 
mulation  grew  into  a  divinity,  whose  chaotic  treasures  no 
one  ever  dreamed  to  distrust.  Authority,  here,  wielding 
her  massy  tomes,  as  Hercules  his  club,  craved  no  succor 
from  digestion  ;  knocking  reason  over  with  the  butt  of  the 
pistol,  according  to  Johnson,  when  failing  to  do  execution 
from  the  muzzle.  One  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  dust  at 


LAW    IN    DESHABILLE.  55 

the  mere  sight  of  these  chambers :  the  dusty  desks,  dirty 
books,  grimy  walls ;  all  inspiring  solemn  thoughts  of  the 
tombs  of  Egypt  and  the  Assyrian,  merely  to  behold  them. 
The  two  small  apartments,  such  as  a  lawyer  would  regard 
as  snug,  were  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  window  in  each, 
and  these  looked  out  upon  a  dismal  and  crowded  little  court. 
The  panes  of  the  two  windows,  wretchedly  small  as  they 
were,  had,  evidently,  never  once,  since  fashioned  in  their 
frames,  been  opened,  or  subjected  to  the  impertinent  agency 
of  soap  and  water.  The  sun  grew  jaundiced  as  he  looked 
through  the  sombre  glasses.  Shelves  of  cumbrous  volumes, 
all  of  that  uniform  vulgar  complexion  which  distinguishes 
the  books  of  a  lawyer's  office  —  a  uniform  as  natural  as 
drab  to  the  quakcr,  white  neckwrappers  to  the  priest,  and 
black  to  the  devil— increased  the  lugubrious  aspect  of  the 
apartments.  Plaster  casts  of  Coke  and  Bacon,  and  sun 
dry  other  favorite  authorities,  stood  over  the  book-cases, 
smeared  with  soot,  and  fettered  with  the  cobwebs  of  three 
lives,  or,  possibly,  as  many  generations.  The  rooms  had 
little  other  furniture  of  any  sort,  except  the  huge  table 
covered  with  baize,  now  black,  which  had  once  been  green, 
and  which  also  bore  its  century  of  dingy  volumes.  Rigid 
cases  of  painted  pine  occupied  the  niches  on  each  side  of 
the  chimney,  divided  into  numerous  sections,  each  filled 
with  its  portly  bundles  of  closely-written  papers : — 

"  Strange  words,  scrawled  with  a  barbarous  pen." 

In  short,  the  picture  was  that  of  a  law-office,  the  proprietor 
of  which  was  in  very  active  and  successful  practice. 

But  the  gravity  which  distinguished  the  solemn  fixtures, 
and  the  silent  volumes,  did  not  extend  to  the  human  inmates 
of  this  dim  lodging-house  of  law.  Two  of  these  sat  by  the 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Their  feet  were  upon  it 
at  opposite  quarters,  while  their  chairs  were  thrown  back 
and  balanced  upon  their  hind  legs,  at  such  an  angle  as  gave 
most  freedom  and  ease  of  position  to  the  person 


66  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Something  of  merriment  had  inspired  them,  for  the  room 
was  full  of  cachination  from  their  rival  voices,  long  before 
our  entrance.  Of  the  topics  of  which  they  spoke,  the 
reader  must  form  his  own  conjectures.  They  may  have  c. 
significance  hereafter,  of  which  we  have  no  present  intima 
tion.  It  may  be  well  to  state,  however,  that  it  is  our  pres 
ent  impression  that  we  have  somewhere  met  botli  of  these 
persons  on  some  previous  occasion.  We  certainly  rcmem 
ber  that  tall,  slender  form,  that  sly,  smiling  visage,  and 
those  huge  bushy  whiskers.  That  chuckling  laugh  enters 
into  our  cars  like  a  well-remembered  sound ;  and,  as  for 
the  companion  of  him  from  whom  it  proceeds,  we  can  not 
mistake.  Every  word  and  look  is  familiar.  It  is  five 
years  gone,  indeed,  but  the  impression  was  too  strongly 
impressed  to  be  so  easily  obliterated. 

Our  companions  continued  merry.  The  conversation  was 
still  disjointed — just  enough  being  said  to  renew  the  laugh 
ter  of  both  parties.  As,  for  example : — 

"  Such  an  initiation  !"  said  one. 

"  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !"  roared  the  other,  at  the  bare  suggestion. 

"  And  did  you  mark  the  uses  made  of  old  Darby, 
Wai-ham?'/ 

"No:  I  missed  him  before  eleven.  Did  he  not  escape? 
Where  was  he  ?" 

"  Quiet  as  a  mouse,  unconscious  as  a  pillow,  under  the 
feet  of  Barnabas.  Barnabas  used  him  as  a  sort  of  foot 
stool.  First  one  foot,  then  another,  came  down  upon  his 
breast ;  and  you  know  the  measure  of  Barnabas'  legs. 
Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"Hundred-pounders  each,  by  Jupiter.  Whenever  they 
came  down  you  could  hear  the  squelch.  Poor  Darby  did 
not  seem  to  breathe  at  any  other  time,  and  the  air  was 
driven  out  uf  him  with  a  «rush.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  It  was 
decidedly  the  demdost  line  initiation  1  ever  saw  at  the 
club." 


LAW   IN    DESHABILLE.  57 

"  But  Beauchampe !" 

"  Ah  !  that  was  a  dangerous  experiment.  He  can't  stand 
the  stuff." 

"  No,  Ben,  and  that's  not  all.  It  will  not  do  to  put  it  in 
him,  or  there  will  be  no  standing  him.  What  passion? ! 
Egad,  I  trembled  every  moment  lest  he  should  draw  knife 
upon  the  pope.  lie's  more  a  madman  when  drunk  than 
any  man  I  ever  saw." 

"He's  no  gain  to  the  club.  lie  has  no  idea  of  joking 
He's  too  serious." 

"Yet  what  a  joke  it  was,  when  he  took  the  pope  by  hid 
nose,  in  order  to  show  how  a  cork  could  be  pulled  without 
either  handkerchief  or  corkscrew." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     I  thought  he'd  have  wrung  it  off." 

"  That  was  the  pope's  fear  also :  but  he  was  too  much 
afraid  of  provoking  the  madman  to  do  worse,  to  make  the 
slightest  complaint,  and  he  smiled  too,  with  a  desperate 
effort,  while  the  water  ^was  trickling  from  his  eyes." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  and  the  chuckling  was  renewed,  until 
the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  front  room  induced  their 
return  to  sobriety. 

"  Who's  there  V  demanded  one  of  the  merry  com 
panions. 

"Me!  —  the  pope,"  answered  the  voice  of  the  intruder. 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  was  the  simultaneous  effusion  of  tho 
Vwo,  concluded,  however,  with  an  invitation  to  the  other  to 
come  in. 

"  Come  in,  pope,  come  in." 

A  short,  squab,  but  active  little  man,  whose  eyes  snapped 
continually,  and  whose  proboscis  was  of  that  truculent 
complexion  and  shape  which  invariably  impresses  you  with 
the  idea  of  an  experienced  bottle-holder,  at  once  made  his 
appearance. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Your  reverence,  how  does  your  dignity 
feel  this  morning — your  nose,  I  mean  V 


£3  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,  Warham,  I  was  never  so  insulted  in 
all  my  life." 

"  Insulted  !     How  ?     By  what  ?" 

"  By  what !  why,  by  that  d d  fellow  pulling  my  nose." 

"  Indeed,  why  that  was  universally  esteemed  a  compli 
ment,  and  it  was  supposed  by  every  one  to  give  you  pleas: 
ure,  for  you  smiled  upon  him  in  the  most  gracious  manner, 
while  he  was  most  stoutly  tugging  at  it." 

"So  I  did,  by  the  ghost  of  Naso,.but  reason  good  was 
there  why  I  should  ?  The  fellow  was  mad  —  stark  mad." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  he  would  have  done  you  any  harm." 

"  Indeed,  eh !  don't  you.  By  the  powers,  and  if  you 
have  your  doubts  on  that  point,  get  your  nasal  eminence 
betwixt  his  thumb  and  finger,  as  mine  was,  and  you  will 
be  ready  enough  to  change  your  notion,  before  the  next 
sitting  of  the  Symposia.  D — n  it,  I  have  no  feeling  in  the 
region.  It's  as  perfectly  dead  to  me  ever  since,  as  if  it 
were  frozen." 

"It  certainly  docs  wear  a  very  livid  appearance,  eh, 
'Ben  ?"  remarked  the  other,  gravely. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  responded  the  visitor,  with  some 
signs  of  disquiet. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  think  so.  Will  you  pass  Dr.  Filbert's  this 
morning?  if  so,  take  his  opinion." 

"  I  will  make  it  a  point  to  do  so.     I  will." 

"  It's  prudent  only.  I  have  heard  of  several  disastrous 
cases  of  the  loss  of  the  nose.  Perhaps  there  is  no  feature 
which  is  so  obnoxious  to  injury.  The  most  fatal  symptom 
is  an  obtuseness  —  a  sort  of  numbness  —  a  deficiency  of 
sensibility." 

"  My  very  symptom." 

"  Amputation  has  'been  frequently  resorted  to,  but  not 
always  in  season  to  prevent  the  spread  of  mortification." 

"  The  devil,  you  say  —  amputation  !" 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  a  small  matter." 

u  What!  to  lose  one's  nose  —  and  such  a  nose!" 


LAW    IN    DESHABILLE.  5S 

"  Yes,  a  small  matter.  Such  is  the  progress  of  art  that 
noses  of  any  dimensions  are  now  supplied  to  answer  all 
purposes." 

"  Is  this  true,  Warham  ?  But  dang  it,  even  if  it  were, 
there's  no  compensating  a  man  for  the  loss  of  his  own.  No 
nose  could  be  made  to  answer  my  purposes  half  so  well  as 
the  one  I  was  born  with.'* 

"But  you  do  not  suppose  that  you  were  born  with  that 
nose." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  were  born  of  the  flesh.  But  that  nose  is  decidedly 
more  full  of  the  spirit." 

"  That's  an  imputation.  But  I  can  tell  you  that  a  man's 
nose  may  become  very  red,  yet  he  be  very  temperate." 

"  Granted.  But  temperance,  according  to  the  club,  im 
plies  anything  but  abstinence.  Besides,  you  were  made 
perpetual  pope  only  while  your  nose  lasted,  and  color,  size, 
and  the  irregular  prominences  by  which  yours  is  so  thickly 
studded,  were  the  causes  of  your  selection.  The  loss  of 
your  nose  itself  would  not  be  your  only  loss.  You  would 
be  required  to  abdicate." 

"  But  you  are  not  serious,  Warham,  about  the  suscepti 
bility  of  the  nose  to  injury." 

"Ask  Ben!" 

"  It's  a  dem'd  dangerous  symptom,  you  hare,  your  rev 
erence." 

"  Coldness  —  at  once  a  sign  of  disease,  though  latent  per 
haps,  and  of  inferior  capacity,  for  it  is  the  distinguishing 
trait  of  cat  and  dog." 

"  And  the  dem'd  numbness." 

"  Ay,  the  want  of  sensibility  is  a  bad  sign.  Besides,  I 
think  the  pope's  nose  has  lost  nearly  all  its  color." 

"  Except  a  dark  crimson  about  the  roots." 

"  And  the  bridge  is  still  passable" 

11  Yes,  but  how  long  will  it  be  so  in  the  club  ?  That  haa 
grown  pale  also." 


60  BEAUCHAMPE. 

41  To  a  degree,  only,  Bon :  I  don't  think  it  much  laded." 

"Perhaps  not;  and  now  I  look  again,  it  docs  seem  to 
inc  that  one  of  the  smaller  carbuncles  on  the  main  promi 
nence  keeps  up  appearances." 

"  Look  you,  lads,  d — n  it,  you're  quizzing  me  !"  was  the 
sudden  interruption  of  the  person  whose  nose  furnished  the 
subject  of  discussion,  but  his  face  wore  a  very  bewildered 
expression,  and  he  evidently  only  had  a  latent  idea  of  the 
waggery  of  which  he  was  the  victim. 

"  Quizzing !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  companions. 
'  Quizzing  !"  echoed  the  other.  "  Never  was  more  dem'd 
serious  in  all  my  life !"  and  he  stroked  his  black,  bushy 
whiskers  in  a  very  conclusive  manner.  The  visitor  applied 
his  fingers  to  the  nasal  prominence  which  had  become  so 
fruitful  a  source  of  discussion,  and  passed  them  over  its 
various  outline  with  the  tenderness  of  a  man  who  handles  a 
subject  of  great  intrinsic  delicacy. 

"  It  feels  pretty  much  as  ever !"  said  he,  drawing  a  long 
breath. 

"  Ay,  to  your  fingers.  But  what  is  its  own  feeling  ?  Try 
now  and  snuff  the  air." 

The  ambiguous  member  was  put  into  instant  exercise,  and 
such  a  snuffing  and  snorting  as  followed,  utterly  drowned 
the  sly  chuckling  in  which  the  jeering  companions  occasion 
ally  indulged.  They  played  the  game,  however,  with  mar 
vellous  command  of  visage. 

"  I  can  snuff — I  can  draw  in,  and  drive  out  the  air!" 
exclaimed  the  pope,  with  the  look  of  a  man  somewhat  bet 
ter  satisfied. 

"Ay,  but  do  you  feel  it  cut  —  is  it  sharp  —  does  the  air 
seem  to  scrape  against  and  burn,  as  it  were,  the  nice,  deli 
cate  nerves  of  that  region." 

"  I  can't  say  that  it  does." 

"  Ah !  that's  bad.  Look  you,  Ben.  There's  a  paper  of 
anuff,  yellow  snuff,  on  the  mantelpiece  in  t'other  room. 
Bring  it  —  let  the  pope  trv  that' 


LAW    TN    m:SITAI',TLLR.  6} 

The  other  disappeared,  and  returned,  bringing  with  him 
one  of  those  paper  rolls  which  usually  contain  Sanford's 
preparation  of  bark.  Nor  did  the  appearance  belio  tho 
contents.  The  yellow  powder  was  bark. 

"  Now,  pope,  try  that !  The  test  is  infallible,  that  is  the 
strongest  Scotch  snuff,  and  if  that  don't  succeed  in  titilla 
ting  your  nostrils,  run  to  Filbert  with  all  possible  despatch. 
Fie  may  have  to  operate !" 

The  pope's  hand  was  seen  to  tremble,  as  a  portion  of  tho 
powder  described  as  so  very  potent,  was  poured  into  it  by 
the  confederate.  lie  put  it  to  his  nose,  and,  in  his  haste 
and  anxiety,  fairly  buried  his  suspected  member  in  the 
powder.  His  cheeks  shared  freely  in  tho  bounty,  and  his 
mouth  formed  a  better  idea  of  the  qualities  of  the  "  snuff," 
than  ever  could  his  proboscis.  The  application  over,  the 
patient  prepared  himself  to  sneeze,  by  clapping  one  hand 
upon  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  opening  his  mouth,  and  care 
fully  thrusting  his  head  forward  and  his  nose  upward. 

"  Oh  !  you're  trying  to  sneeze !"  said  one  of  the  two. 
"  You  shouldn't  force  tho  matter." 

"  No,  I  don't.     But  is  the  snuff  so  very  strong?" 

u  The  demdest  strongest  Scotch  that  I  ever  nosed  yet." 

"  I  can't  sneeze!"  said  the  pope,  in  accents  of  conster 
nation. 

His  companions  shook  their  heads  dolefully.  Pie  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  as  if  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

"  A  serious  matter,"  said  one. 

"  Dem'd  serious !  There's  no  telling,  Warham,  what 
sort  of  a  looking  person  the  pope  would  be  without  his 
nose." 

"  Difficult,  indeed,  to  imagine.  A  valley  for  a  mountain ! 
It's  as  if  we  went  to  bed  to-night  with  the  town  at  the  foot 
of  the  hills,  and  rose  to-morrow  to  find  it  on  the  top  of  them. 
There's  nothing  more  important  to 'a  man's  face  than  his 
nose.  Appearances  absolutely  demand  it.  The  uses  of  a 
nose,  indeed,  are  really  less  important  than  its  presence." 


62  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you  there,  Warham  ;  a  sneeze — 

"Is  a  joy,  Ben  —  a  luxury;  but  a  nose  is  a  necessity, 
What  show  could  a  man  make  without  a  nose  ?" 

"  Rather  what  a  show  he  would  make  of  himself  without 
it !  A  monstrous  show !" 

<;  You're  right.  Besides,  the  pope's  loss  would  be  great 
er  than  that  of  most  ordinary  men." 

"  Much,  much  ?  Let  us  take  the  dimensions,  pope. 
Three  inches  from  base  to  apex  —  from  root  to  the  same 
point  —  " 

"Four  at  least  —  the  dromedary's  hump  alone  calls  for 
two." 

And  in  the  spirit  of  unmeasured  fun,  the  person  who  is 
called  Ben  by  his  companion,  arming  himself  with  a  string, 
was  actually  about  to  subject  the  proboscis  of  the  pope  to 
rule  and  line,  when  the  eyes  of  the  latter,  which  had  really 
exhibited  some  consternation  before,  were  suddenly  illumi 
nated.  He  caught  up  the  paper  of  supposed  snuff  which 
Eea  had  incautiously  laid  down  upon  the  table  and  read  the 
label  upon  it. 

"  Ah  !  villains  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  at  your  old  tricks.  I 
should  have  known  it.  But  I'll  pay  you,"  and  starting  up 
he  proceeded  to  fling  the  yellow  powder  over  the  merry 
makers.  This  led  to  a  general  scramble,  over  chairs  and 
tables  from  one  room  to  another.  The  office  rang  with 
shouts  and  laughter  —  the  cries  of  confusion  and  exultation, 
aod  the  tumbling  of  furniture.  The  atmosphere  was  filled 
with  the  floating  particles  of  the  medicine,  and  while  the 
commotion  was  at  its  height,  the  party  were  joined  unex 
pectedly  by  a  fourth  person  who  suddenly  made  his  appear 
ance  from  the  street. 

"  Ua,  Beauchampe !  that  you  ?  You  are  come  in  time. 
Grapple  the  pope  there  from  behind,  or  he  will  suffocate  us 
with  Jesuit's  bark." 

"  And  a  proper  fate  for  such  Jesuits  as  ye  are,"  exclaimed 
the  pope,  who,  however,  ceased  the  horse-play  the  moment 


LAW    IN    DESHABILLE.  63 

that  the  name  of  the  new-comer  was  mentioned.  He  turned 
round  and  confronted  him  as  he  spoke,  with  a  countenance 
in  which  dislike  and  apprehension  were  singularly  mingled 
and  very  clearly  expressed. 

"  Mr.  Lowe,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  here,"  said  Bean- 
champe  respectfully  but  modestly ;  "  it  saves  me  the  neces 
sity  of  calling  upon  you.'* 

"  Calling  upon  me,  sir  ?.    For  what  ?" 

"  To  apologize  for  my  rudeness  to  you  last  night.  I  was 
not  conscious  of  it,  but  some  friends  this  morning  tell  mo 
that  I  was  rude." 

"  That  you  were,  sir !     You  pulled  my  nose !  you  did !" 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it." 

"  No  man's  nose  should  be  pulled,  Mr.  Beauchampe,  with 
out  an  object.  If  you  had  pulled  my  nose  with  an  inten 
tion,  it  might  have  been  excused ;  but,  to  pull  it  without 
design,  is,  it  appears  to  me,  decidedly  inexcusable." 

"  Decidedly,  decidedly !"  was  the  united  exclamation  of 
the  two  friends. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  indeed,  Mr.  Lowe.  It  was,  sir,  a  very 
unwarrantable  liberty,  if  I  did  such  a  thing,  and  I  know 
not  how  to  excuse  it." 

"  It  m  not  to  be^excuscd,"  said  the  pope,  or  Lowe,  which 
was  his  proper  name,  whose  indignation  seemed  to  increase 
in  due  proportion  with  the  meekness  and  humility  of  the 
young  man. 

"  A  nose,"  he  continued,  "  a  nose  is  a  thing  perhaps  quite 
as  sacred  as  any  other  in  a  man's  possession." 

"  Quite !"  said  the  jesters  with  one  breath. 

"  No  man,  as  I  have  said  before,  should  pull  the  nose  of 
another,  unless  he  had  some  distinct  purpose  in  view.  Now, 
sir,  had  you  any  such  purpose  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  can  now  recollect." 

"  Let  me  assist  you,  Beauchampe.  You  had  a  purpose. 
You  declared  it  at  the  time.  The  purpose  was  even  a  be 
nevolent  one  ;  nay,  something  more  than  benevolent.  The 


f>4  BEAUCHAMPE. 

corkscrew  had  been  mislaid,  and  you  undertook  to  show  to 
the  pope  —  remember,  the  presiding  officer  of  the  society — 
that  a  cork  might  be  drawn  without  any  other  instrument 
than  the  ordinary  thumb  and  forefinger  of  a  free  white  man. 
You  illustrated  the  principle  on  the  pope's  proboscis,  and 
so  effectually,  that  everybody  was  convinced,  not  only  that 
the  cork  might  be  drawn  in  this  way  from  every  bottle,  but 
that  the  same  mode  would  be  equally  effectual  in  drawing 
any  nose  from  any  face.  If  this  was  not  a  purpose,  and  a 
laudable  one,  then  I  am  no  judge  of  the  matter." 

"  But,  Sharpe,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Lowe,  "  you  over 
look  the  fact  that  Beauchampe  has  already  admitted  that 
he  had  no  purpose." 

"  Beauchampe  is  no  witness  in  his  own  case,  nor  is  it 
asked  whether  he  has  a  purpose  now,  but  whether  he  had 
one  when  the  deed  was  done." 

"  It  was  a  drunken  purpose  then,  colonel,"  said  Beau 
champe  gravely 

"Drunk  or  sober,  it  matters  not,'1  said  tho  other;  "it 
was  not  less  a  purpose,  and  I  say  a  good  one.  The  act 
was  one  pro  bono  pubiico ;  and  I,  moreover,  contend  that 
you  did  not  pull  the  nose  of  our  friend  except  in  his  official 
capacity.  You  pulled  the  nose,  not  of  Daniel  Lowe,  Esq., 
but  of  the  supreme  pontiff  of  our  microcosm  ;  and  I  really 
think  that  the  pope  does  wrong  to  remember  the  event  in 
his  condition  as  a  mere  man.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  does 
not  violate  that  rule,  seventeenth  section,  seventh  clause, 
of  the  '  ordinance  for  the  better  preservation  of  the  individ 
uality  of  the  fraternals,'  which  provides  that  4  all  persons, 
members,  who  shall  betray  the  discoveries,  new  truths,  and 
modern  inventions,  the  progress  of  discovery  and  prosely- 
tism,  the  processes  deemed  essential  to  be  employed,'  <fcc. 
You  all  remember  the  section,  clause,  and  penalty." 

"  Pshaw  !  how  can  you  make  out  that  I  violate  the  clause  ? 
What  have  I  betrayed  that  should  be  secret  ?" 

"  The  new  mode  of  extracting  a  cork  from  a  bottle,  which 


LAW    IN    DKRHAHTLLR.  h/> 

our  new  member,  Beuuchampe,  displayed  last,  evening,  to 
the  great  edification  of  every  fraternal  present." 

"  But  it  was  no  cork !     My  nose — 

"  Symbolically,  it  was  a  cork,  and  your  nose  had  no  right 
to  any  resentments.  But  come,  let  us  take  the  back  room 
again  and  resume  our  seats,  when  we  can  discuss  the  matter 
more  at  leisure." 

The  motion  was  seconded,  and  the  dusty  particles  of 
Jesuit's  bark  having  subsided  from  the  atmosphere  of  the 
adjoining  room,  the  parties  drew  chairs  around  the  table 
as  before,  with  a  great  appearance  of  comparative  satis 
faction. 


Hti  BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER   \ 

STUMP  TACTICS. 

"  Our  village  politicians,  how  they  plan 
Their  pushpin  practice  —  for  the  rights  of  man  1" 

THE  name  of  Beauchampe,  of  which  our  readers  have 
heard  nothing  until  this  period,  though  it  confers  its  name 
on  our  story,  renders  it  necessary  that  we  should  devote  a 
few  moments  in  particular  to  him  by  whom  it  is  borne.  He 
was  a  young  man,  not  more  than  twenty-one,  tall,  and  of 
very  handsome  person.  His  eye  was  bright,  and  his  whole 
face  full  of  intelligence.  His  manners  and  features  equal 
ly  denoted  the  modesty  and  the  ingenuousness  of  youth. 
There  was  a  gentleness  in  his  deportment,  however,  which, 
though  natural  enough  to  his  nature  when  in  repose,  was 
not  its  characteristic  at  other  periods.  He  was  of  excita 
ble  constitution,  passionate,  and  full  of  enthusiasm  ;  and, 
when  aroused,  not  possessed  of  any  powers  of  self-govern 
ment  or  restraint.  At  present,  and  sitting  with  the  rest 
about  the  table,  his  features  were  not  only  subdued  and 
quiet,  but  they  wore  an  air  of  profound  humility  and  self- 
dissatisfaction,  which  was  sufficiently  evident  to  all. 

"  Our  new  member,"  said  one  of  the  party,  "  does  not 
seem  to  have  altogether  got  over  the  pains  of  initiation. 
Fh,  Beauchampe !  how  is  it  ?  Does  the  head  ache  still  ? 
Are  the  nerves  still  disordered  ?" 

"  No,  colonel,  but  I  feet  inexpressibly  mean  and  sheep- 
is)).  I  am  very  sorry  you  persuaded  me  to  join  your  club." 


STUMP    TACTICS.  67 

"  Persuade  !  it  was  not  possible  to  avoid  it.  Every  new 
graduate  at  the  bar,  to  be  recognised,  must  go  through  the 
initiation.  Your  regrets  and  repentance  are  treasonable." 

"  I  feel  them  nevertheless.     I  muse  have  been  a  savage 

O 

and  a  beast  if  what. I  am  told  be  true.  I  never  was  drunk 
before  in  my  life,  and,  club  or  no  club,  if  I  can  help  it.  never 
will  be  drunk  again.  Indeed,  I  can  not  even  now  under 
stand  it.  I  drank  no  great  deal  of  wine." 

'"  No,  indeed,  precious  little  —  no  more  than  would  dash 
the  brandy.  You  may  thank  Ben  there  for  his  adroitness 
in  mingling  the  liquors." 

"  I  do  thank  him  !"  said  the  youth  with  increased  gravi 
ty,  and  a  glance  which  effectually  contradicted  his  words, 
addiessed  to  the  offender.  That  worthy  did  not  seem  much 
annoyed,  however. 

"It  was  the  demdest  funny  initiation  I  did  ever  see! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  J  say,  pope,  how  is  your  reverence's  nose  ?" 

"Let  my  nose  alone,  you  grinning,  big-whiskered,  little 
creature !" 

"  Noses  are  sacred,"  said  Sharpe. 

"  To  be  pulled  only  with  a  purpose,  Warham." 

"Symbolically."  pursued  the  first. 

"  By  way  of  showing  how  corks  are  to  be  drawn." 

"Oh,  d — n  you  for  a  pair  of  blue  devils!"  exclaimed 
Lowe,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
offenders. 

"  What,  are  you  off,  pope  ?"  demanded  Sharpe. 

"  Yes.  I  am.  There's  no  satisfaction  in  staying  with 
you." 

"  Call  at  Filbert's  on  your  way,  be  sure." 

"For  what,  I  want  to  know?1' 

"  Why,  for  his  professional  opinion.  The  worst  sign, 
you  know,  is  that  numbness — " 

"  Coldness." 

"Insensibility  to  Scotch  snuff." 

"  And  remember,  though  your  nose  was  pulled  officially, 


68  BEAUCHAMPE. 

it  may  yet  be  personally  injured.  The  official  pulling  sim 
ply  acquits  the  offender :  the  liability  of  the  nose  is  not  les 
sened  by  the  legalization  of  the  act  of  pulling." 

"  The  devil  take  you  for  a  pair  of  puppies,"  cried  the  vic 
tim  with  a  queer  expression  of  joint  fun  and  vexation  on 
his  face.  "  Of  course,  Mr.  Beauchampe,"  he  said,  turning 
to  the  young  man,  "  of  course  I  don't  believe  what  these 
dogs  say  about  my  nose  having  suffered  any  vital  injury ; 
but  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that  you  hurt  me  very  much  last 
night ;  and  I  feel  the  pain  this  morning." 

"  I  am  truly  sorry,  Mr.  Lowe,  for  what  I  have  done. 
Truly,  sincerely  sorry.  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  your  pain  of 
body  is  nothing  to  that  which  I  suffer  in  mind  from  having 
exposed  myself,  as  I  fear  I  did." 

*;  You  did  expose  yourself  and  me  too,  sir.  I  trust  you 
will  never  do  so  again.  I  advise  you,  sir,  never  do  so 
again — never,  unless  you  have  a  serious  and  sufficient  mo 
tive.  Don't  let  these  fellows  gull  you  with  the  idea  that  it 
was  any  justification  for  such  an  act  that  corks  might  be 
drawn  from  bottles  in  such  a  manner.  Corks  are  not  noses. 
Nobody  can  reasonably  confound  them.  The  shape,  color, 
everything  is  different.  There  is  nothing  in  the  feel  of  the 
two  to  make  one  fancy  a  likeness.  You  are  young,  sir,  and 
liable  to  be  abused.  Take  the  advice  of  an  older  man. 
Look  into  this  matter  for  yourself,  and  you  will  agree  with 
me  not  only  that  there  is  no  likeness  between  a  nose  and  a 
cork,  but  that,  even  admitting  that  your  plan  of  drawing  a 
cork  from  a  bottle  by  the  thumb  and  forefinger  is  a  good 
one,  it  would  be  impossible  to  teach  the  process  by  exer 
cising  them  upon  a  nose  in  the  same  manner.  These  young 
men  are  making  fun  of  you,  Mr.  Beauchampe — they  are, 
believe  me  !" 

"  Ha, !  ha  !  ha  !"  roared  the  offenders.  "  Very  good, 
your  reverence." 

"  He  !  he !  he !  you  puppies.  Do  you  think  I  mind  your 
cackling !"  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the  company,  Mr.  Lowo 


STUMP    TACTICS.  69 

took  his  departure,  involuntarily  stroking,  with  increased 
affection  the  nasal  eminence  which  had  furnished  occasion 
for  so  much  misplaced  merriment. 

"  Well,  Beauchampe,"  said  one  of  the  companions,  "  you 
still  seem  grave  about  this  business,  but  you  should  not. 
If  ever  a  man  may  forget  himself  and  be  mad  for  a  night, 
after  the  fashion  of  old  Anaereon,  it  is  surely  the  night  of 
that  day  when  he  is  admitted  to  the  temple  —  when  he  takes 
his  degree,  and  passes  into  the  brotherhood  of  the  bar.'* 

"  Nay,  on  such  a  day  least  of  all." 

"  Pshaw,  you  were  never  born  for  a  puritan.  OldThurs- 
ton,  your  parson  teacher,  has  perverted  you  from  your  bet 
ter  nature.  You  are  a  fellow  for  fun  and  flash,  high  frolic, 
and  the  complete  abandonment  of  blood.  You  look  at  this 
matter  too  seriously.  Do  I  not  tell  you  —  I  that  have  led 
you  through  all  the  thorny  paths  of  legal  knowledge  —  do  I 
not  tell  you  that  your  offence  is  venial.  c  A  good  sherris- 
sack  hath  a  twofold  operation  in  it.'  " 

"  Beauchampe  found  it  fourfold,"  said  the  bush-whiskered 
gentleman  —  "  that  is,  fourth  proof;  and  he  showed  proofs 
enough  of  it.  By  Gad  !  never  did  a  man  play  such  pleas 
ant  deviltries  with  his  neighbor's  members.  The  nose- 
pulling  was  only  a  small  part  of  his  operations.  It  was 
certainly  a  most  lovely  initiation." 

"  At  least  it's  all  over,  Mr.  Coalter ;  and  as  matters  have 
turned  out,  nothing  more  need  be  said  on  the  subject ;  but 
were  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you  that  your  practice  upon  my 
wine  would  be  a  dangerous  experiment  for  you.  I  speak 
to  you  by  way  of  warning,  and  not  with  tho  view  to  quarrel. 
I  presume  you  meant  nothing  more  thdn  a  jest  ?" 

"  Dem  the  bit  more,"  said  the  other,  half  dissatisfied 
with  himself  at  the  concession,  yet  more  than  half  convinced 
of  the  propriety  of  making  it.  "  Pern  the  bit  more.  Sharpo 
will  tell  you  that  it's  a  trick  of  tho  game  —  a  customary 
trick  —  must  be  done  by  somebody,  and  was  done  by  me, 
only  because  I  like  to  see  3  dem'd  fine  initiation  such  as 


70  BKAUCHAMPK. 

yours  was,  rny  boy.  But,  good  morning,  Bcauchampe — 
good  morning,  Sharpe  —  I  see  you  have  business  to  do  — 
some  dem'd  political  business,  I  suppose ;  and  so  I  leave 
you.  I'm  no  politician,  but  I  see  that  Judge  Tompkins;  ia 
in  the  field  against  your  friend  Desha.  ~Eh !  don't  you 
think  I  can  guess  the  rest,  Warham —  eh  ?" 

"  Sagacious  fellow !"  saic^Sharpe  as  the  other  disap 
peared  ;  "  and,  in  this  particular,  not  ^ar  fr°m  ^ne  mark. 
Tompkins  is  in  the  field  against  Deslta,  and  will  run  him  a 
tight  race.  I  too  must  go  into  th^field,  Beauchampe.  The 
party  requires  it,  and  though  I  have  some  reasons  not  to 
wish  it  just  at  this  time,  yet  the  matter  is  scarcely  avoida 
ble.  I  shall  want  every  assistance,  and  I  shall  expect  you 
to  take  the  stump  for  me." 

"  Whatever  I  can  do  I  will." 

"  You  can  do  much.  You  do  not  know  your  own  abili 
ties  on  the  stump.  You  will  do  famous  things  yet ;  and 
this  is  the  time  to  try  yourself.  The  success  of  a  man  in 
our  country  depends  on  the  first  figure.  You  are  just  ad 
mitted  ;  something  is  expected  of  you.  There  can  be  no 
better  opportunity  to  begin." 

"  I  am  ready  and  willing." 

"  Scarcely,  mon  ami.  You  are  going  to  Simpson.  You 
will  get  with  sisters  and  mamma,  and  waste  the  daylight. 
Believe  me  this  is  no  time  to  play  at  mammets.  We  want 
every  man.  We  will  need  them  all." 

"  You  shall  find  me  ready.  I  shall  not  stay  long  at 
Simpson.  But  do  not  think  that  I  will  commit  myself  for 
Desha.  I  prefer  Tompkins." 

"  Well,  but  you  will  do  nothing  on  that  subject.  You 
do  not  mean  to  come  out  for  Tompkins  ?" 

"  No !  I  only  tell  you  I  will  do  nothing  on  the  subject  of 
the  gubernatorial  canvass.  You  are  for  the  assembly.  I 
will  turn  out  in  your  behalf.  But  who  is  your  opponent?" 

"One  Calvert — William  Calvert.  Said  to  be  a  smart 
fellow.  I  never  saw  him,  but  he  is  spoken  of  as  no  mean 


STUMP   TACTICS.  ll 

person.     He  writes  well.     His  letter  to  the  people  of 

lies  on  the  desk  there.  Put  it  in  your  pocket  and  read  it 
at  your  leisure.  It  is  well  done  —  quite  artful — but  rather 
prosing  and  puritanical." 

Beauchampe  took  up  the  pamphlet,  passed  his  eyes  over 
the  page,  and  placed  it  without  remark  in  his  pocket. 

"  Barnabas,"  continued  Sharpe, "  who  has  seen  this  fellow 
Calvert,  says  he's  not  to  be  despised.  He's  a  mere  country 
lawyer,  however,  who  is  not  known  out  of  his  own  precinct. 
In  taking  the  field  now,  he  makes  a  miscalculation.  I  shall 
beat  him  very  decidedly.  But  he  has  friends  at  work,  who 
are  able,  and  mine  must  not  sleep.  Do  I  understand  you 
as  promising  to  take  the  field  against  him  ?" 

"  If  he  is  so  clever,  he  will  need  a  stronger  opponent. 
Why  not  do  it  yourself?" 

"  Surely,  I  will.  I  long  for  nothing  better.  But  I  can 
not  be  everywhere,  and  he  and  his  friends  are  everywhere 
busy.  I  will  seek  him  in  his  stronghold,  and  grapple  with 
him  tooth  and  nail ;  but  there  will  be  auxiliary  combatants, 
and  you  must  be  ready  to  take  up  the  cudgel  at  the  same 
time  with  some  other  antagonist.  When  do  you  leave 
town  ?" 

"To-day  — within  the  hour." 

"  So  soon  !  Why  I  looked  to  have  you  to  dinner.  Mrs 
Sharpe  expects  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  deprive  myself  of  the  pleasure  of  doing 
justice  to  her  good  things  ;  but  I  wrote  my  sisters  and  they 
will  expect  me." 

"  Pshaw  !  what  of  that !  The  disappointment  of  a  day 
only.  You  will  be  the  more  welcome  from  the  delay." 

"They  will  apprehend  some  misfortune  —  perhaps,  my 
rejection  —  and  I  would  spare  them  the  mortification  if  not 
the  fear.  You  must  make  my  compliments  and  excuse  to 
Mrs.  S." 

"You  will  be  a  boy,  Beauchampe.  Let  the  girls  wait  a 
day,  and  dine  with  me.  You  will  meet  some  good  fellows 


[2 

and  get  a  glimpse  into  the  field  of  war  —  see  how  we  open 
the  campaign,  and  so  forth/' 

"  Temptations,  surely,  not  to  be  despised  ;  but  I  confess 
to  my  boyhood  in  one  respect,  and  will  prove  my  manhood 
in  another.  I  ana  able  to  resist  your  temptations  —  so  much 
for  my  manhood.  My  boyhood  makes  me  keep  word  with 
my  sisters,  and  the  shame  be  on  my  head." 

"  Shame,  indeed  ;  but  where  shall  we  meet?" 

"At  Bowling  Green  —when  you  please/' 

"  Enough  then  on  that  head.  I  will  write  you  when  you 
are  wanted.  I  confess  to  a  strong  desire,  apart  from  my 
own  interests,  to  see  you  on  the  stump ;  and  if  I  can  ar 
range  it  so,  I  will  have  you  break  ground  against  Calvert." 

''  But  that  is  not  so  easy.     What  is  there  against  him  ?" 

"  You  will  find  out  from  his  pamphlet.  Nothing  more 
easy.  He  is  obscure,  that  is  certain.  Little  known  among 
the  people.  Why?  For  a  good  reason  —  lie  is  a  haughty 
aristocrat — a  man  who  only  knows  them  when  he  wants 
their  votes !" 

"  Is  that  the  case?" 

^Simple  fellow !  we  must  make  it  appear  so.  It  may 
be  or  not  —  what  matter?  That  he  is  shy,  and  reserved, 
and  unknown,  is  certain.  It's  just  as  likely  he  is  so,  be 
cause  of  his  pride,  as  anything  else.  Perhaps  he's  a  fellow 
of  delicate  feelings  !  This  is  better  for  us,  if  you  can  make 
U  appear  so.  People  don't  like  fellows  of  very  delicate 
feelings.  That  alone  would  be  conclusive  against  him.  If 
we  could  persuade  him  to  wear  silk  gloves,  now,  it  would 
be  only  necessary  to  point  them  out  on  the  canvass,  to  turn 
be  stomachs  of  the  electors,  and  their  votes  with  their 
stomachs.  They  would  throw  him  up  instantly. 

Beauchampe  shook  his  head.  The  other  interpreted  the 
motion  incorrectly. 

''  What!  you  do  not  believe  it.  Never  doubt.  The  fact 
ii;  certain.  Such  would  be  the  case.  Did  you  ever  hear 
tne  story  of  Barnabas  in  his  first  campaign  ?" 


STUMP   TACTICS.  73 

r      «  No  !  —  not  that  I  recollect." 

"He  was  stumping  it  through  your  own  county  of  Simp 
son.  There  were  two  candidates  against  him.  One  of 
them  stood  no  chance.  That  was  certain.  The  other, 
however,  was  generally  considered  to  be  quite  as  strong  if 
not  stronger  than  Barnabas.  Now  Barnabas,  in  those  days, 
was  something  of  a  dandy.  He  wore  tine  clothes,  a  long- 
tail  blue,  a  steeple-crowned  beaver,  and  silk-gloves.  Old 
Ben  Jones,  his  uncle,  saw  him  going  out  on  the  canvas?  in 

this  unseasonable  trim  ;  told  him  he  was  a  d d  fool ;  that 

the  very  coat,  and  gloves,  and  hat,  would  lose  him  the  elec 
tion.  '  Come  in  with  me,'  said  the  old  buck.  He  did  so, 
and  Jones  rigged  him  out  in  a  suit  of  buckskin  breeches  ; 
gave  him  an  old  slouch  tied  with  a  piece  of  twine  ;  made 
him  put  on  a  common  homespun  roundabout ;  and  sent  him 
on  the  campaign  with  these  accoutrements." 

"  A  mortifying  exchange  to  Barnabas." 

"  Not  a  bit.  The  fellow  was  so  eager  for  election,  that 
he'd  have  gone  without  clothes  at  all,  sooner  than  have 
missed  a  vote.  But  one  thing  the  old  man  did  not  remem 
ber —  the  silk-glaves  —  and  Barnabas  had  nearly  reached 
the  muster-ground  before  he  recollected  that  he  had  them 
on  his  hands.  He  took  'em  off  instantly,  and  thrust  'em 
into  his  pocket.  When  he  reached  the  ground,  he  soon 
discovered  the  wisdom  of  old  Jones's  proceedings.  He 
was  introduced  to  his  chief  opponent,  and  never  was  there 
a  more  rough-and-tumble-looking  ruffian  under  the  sun. 
Barnabas  swears  that  he  had  not  washed  his  face  and  hands 
for  a  week.  His  coat  was  out  at  the  elbows,  and  though 
made  of  cloth  originally  both  blue  and  good,  it  was  evi 
dently  not  made  for  the  present  wearer.  His  breeches 
were  common  homespun ;  and  his  shoes,  of  yellow-belly, 
were  gaping  or  both  feet.  He  had  on  stockings,  however. 
Barnabas  looked  and  felt  quite  genteel  alongside  of  him ; 
but  he  felt  his  danger  also.  He  saw  that  the  appearance 
«»£  the  fellow  was  very  much  in  his  favor.  There  was  al- 


74  BEAUCHAMPE. 

ready  a  crowd  around  him  ;  and,  when  he  talked,  his  words 
were  of  that  rough  sort  which  is  supposed  to  indicate  the 
true  staple  of  popular  independence.  As  there  was  nothing 
much  in  favor  or  against  any  of  the  candidates,  unless  it 
was  that  one  of  them  —  not  Barnabas  —  was  suspected  of 
horse-stealing,  all  that  the  speakers  could  do  was  to  prove 
their  own  republicanism,  and  the  aristocracy  of  the  oppo 
nent.  Appearances  would  help  or  dissipate  this  charge ; 
and  Barnabas  saw,  shabby  as  he  was,  that  his  rival  was 
still  shabbier.  A  bright  thought  took  him  that  night. 
Fumbling  in  his  pockets  while  they  were  drinking  at  the 
hotel,  he  felt  his  silk-gloves.  What  does  he  do,  but,  going 
to  his  room,  he  takes  out  his  pocket  inkstand  and  pen,  and 
marks  in  large  letters  the  initials  of  his  opponent  upon 
them.  This  done,  he  watches  his  chance,  and  the  next 
morning  when  they  were  about  to  go  forth  to  the  place  of 
gathering,  he  slips  the  gloves  very  slyly  into  the  other  fel 
low's  pocket.  The  thing  worked  admirably.  In  the  midst 
of  the  speech,  Joel  Peguay — for  that  was  his  rival's  name 
—  endeavoring  to  pull  out  a  ragged  cotton  pocket-hand 
kerchief,  drew  out  the  gloves,  which  fell  behind  him  on  the 
ground.  Barnabas  was  on  the  watch,  and,  pointing  the 
eyes  of  the  assembly  to  the  tokens  of  aristocracy,  ex 
claimed  — 

"  i  This,  gentlemen,  is  a  proof  of  the  sort  of  democracy 
which  Joel  Peguay  practises.' 

"  A  universal  shout,  mixed  with  hisses,  arose.  Peguay 
looked  round,  and,  when  he  was  told  what  was  the  matter, 
answered  with  sufficient  promptness,  and  a  look  of  extraor 
dinary  exultation : — 

"  *  Fellow-citizens,  ain't  this  only  another  proof  of  the 
truth  of  what  I'm  a-telling  you  ?  —  for,  look  you,  them  nasty 
fine  things  come  out  of  this  coat-pocket,  did  they  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  yes !  we  saw  them  drop,  Joel,'  was  the  cry  from 
fifty  voices. 

"  4  Very  good,' said  Joel,  nowise  discomfited,  '  and  the 


STUMP   TACTICS.  75 

coat  was  borrowed,  for  this  same  occasion,  from  Tom  Mead 
ows.  I  hain't  a  decent  coat  of  my  own,  my  friends,  to  come 
before  you  —  none  but  a  round  jacket,  and  that's  tore  down 
in  the  back  —  and  so,  you  see,  I  begged  Tom  Meadows  for 
the  loan  of  his'n,  and  I  reckon  the  gloves  must  be  his'n  too, 
since  they  fell  out  of  the  pocket.' 

"  This  explanation  called  for  a  triumphant  shout  from 
the  friends  of  Peguay,  and  the  affair  promised  to  redound 
still  more  in  favor  of  the  speaker,  when  Barnabas,  shaking 
his  head  gravely,  and  picking  up  the  gloves,  which  he  held 
from  him  as  if  they  had  been  saturated  in  the  dews  of  the 
bohon  upas,  drew  the  eyes  of  those  immediately  at  hand  to 
the  letters  whicli  they  bore. 

"  '  I  am  sorry,'  said  he,  '  to  interrupt  the  gentleman  ;  but 
there  is  certainly  some  mistake  here.  These  gloves  are 
marked  J.  P.,  which  stands  for  Joel  Peguay,  and  not  Tom 
Meadows.  See  for  yourselves,  gentlemen — you  all  can 
read,  I  know  —  here's  J.  P.  I'm  not  much  of  a  reader, 
being  too  poor  to  have  much  of  an  education ;  but  I  know 
pretty  much  what  you  all  do,  that  if  these  gloves  belonged 
to  Tom  Meadows,  they  would  "have  been  marked  T.  M. : 
the  T  for  Tom,  and  the  M  for  Meadows.  I  don't  mean 
to  say  that  they  arc  not  Tom's ;  but  I  do  say  that  it's  very 
strange  that  Tom  Meadows  should  write  his  name  Joel 
Peguay.  I  say  it's  strange,  gentlemen  —  very  strange  — 
that's  all !' 

"  And  that  was  enough.  There  was  no  more  shouting 
from  the  friends  of  Peguay.  He  was  completely  con 
founded.  He  denied  and  disputed,  of  course  ;  but  the 
proofs  were  too  strong,  and  Barnabas  had  done  his  part  of 
the  business  with  great  skill  and  adroitness.  Joel  Peguay 
descended  from  the  stump,  swearing  vengeance  against 
Meadows,  who,  he  took  for  granted,  had  contrived  the  ex 
hibition  secretly,  only  to  defeat  him.  No  doubt  a  fierce 
fond  followed  between  the  parties,  but  Barnabas  was  elect 
ed  by  a  triumphant  vote." 


76  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  And  do  you  really  think,  colonel,"  said  Beauchampe, 
"  that  this  silly  proceeding  had  any  effect  in  producing  the 
result  ?" 

"  Silly,  indeed !  By  my  soul,  such  silly  things,  Master 
Beauchampe,  have  upset  empires.  The  tumbling  of  an  old 
maid's  cap  has  done  more  mischief.  I  can  tell  you,  from 
my  own  experience,  that  a  small  matter  like  this  has  turned 
the  scale  in  many  a  popular  election.  Barnabas  believes 
to  this  day  that  he  owes  his  success  entirely  to  that  little 
ruse  de  guerre" 

"  I  know  not  how  to  believe  it." 

"  Because  you  know  not  yet  that  little,  strange,  mousing, 
tiger-like,  capricious,  obstinate,  foolish  animal,  whom  we 
call  man.  When  you  know  him  more,  you  will  wonder 
less." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Beauchampe.  "  At  all  events,  I  can 
only  say  that,  while  I  will  turn  out  for  you  and  do  all  I  can 
to  secure  your  election  as  in  duty  bound,  I  will  endeavor 
to  urge  your  claims  on  other  grounds." 

"  As  you  please,  my  good  fellow.  Convince  them  that  I 
am  a  patriot,  and  a  prophet,  and  the  best  man  for  them, 
and  I  care  nothing  by  what  process  it  is  done.  And  if  you 
can  lay  bare  the  corresponding  deficiencies  of  mine  oppo 
nent —  this  fellow  Calvert — it  is  a  part  of  the  same  policy, 
to  be  sure." 

"  But  not  so  obviously,"  replied  the  other,  "  for  as  yet, 
you  remember,  we  know  nothing  of  him,  and  can  not  ac 
cordingly  pronounce  upon  his  deficiencies." 

"  You  forget — his  aristocracy  !" 

"  Ah  !  that  is  conjectural,  you  know." 

"  Granted,"  said  the  other,  "  but  what  more  do  you  want? 
A  plausible  conjecture  is  the  very  sort  of  argument  in  a 
popular  election." 

"  But  scarcely  an  honorable  one." 

"  Honorable  !  poh  !  poh  !  poh  !  Old  Thurston  has  seri 
ously  diseased  you,  Beauchampe.  We  must  undertake 


STUMP   TACTICS.  77 

your  treatment  for  this  weakness  —  this  boyish  weakness. 
It  is  a  boyish  weakness,  Beauchampe." 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  it  makes  my  strength." 

"It  will  always  keep  you  feeble  —  certainly  keep  you 
down  in  the  political  world." 

The  young  man  smiled.  The  other,  speaking  hastily, 
continued : — 

"  But  this  need  not  be  discussed  at  present.  Enough 
that  you  will  take  the  field,  and  be  ready  at  my  summons. 
Turn  the  state  of  parties  in  your  mind,  and  that  will  give 
you  matter  enough  for  the  stump.  Read  that  letter  of 
Calvert ;  I  doubt  not  it  will  give  you  more  than  sufficient 
material.  From  a  hasty  glance,  I  see  that  he  distrusts  the 
people ;  that,  as  a  stern  democrat,  you  can  resent  happily. 
I  leave  that  point  to  you.  You  will  regard  that  opinion  as 
a  falsehood  ;  I  tlr.nk  it  worse  —  a  mistake  in  policy.  It  is 
to  this  same  people  that  lie  addresses  his  claims.  How  far 
his  opinion  is  an  impertinence  may  be  seen  in  his  appeal  to 
the  very  judgment  which  lie  decries.  This,  to  my  mind,  is 
conclusive  against  his  own.  But  this  must  not  make  us 
remiss.  I  will  write  to  you  when  the  time  comes,  and  at 
intervals,  should  there  be  anything  new  to  communicate. 
But  you  had  better  stay  to  dinner.  Seriously,  my  wife  ex 
pects  you." 

"  Excuse  me  to  her  —  but  I  must  go.  I  so  long  to  see 
my  sisters,  and  they  will  be  on  the  lookout  for  me.  I  have 
already  written  them." 

With  a  few  words  more,  and  the  young  lawyer  separated 
from  his  late  legal  preceptor.  When  he  was  gone,  the  lat 
ter  stroked  his  chin  complacently  as  he  soliloquized : — 

"  He  will  do  to  break  ground  with  this  fellow  Calvert. 
lie  is  ardent,  soon  roused  ;  and  if  I  am  to  judge  of  Calvert 
from  his  letter,  he  is  a  stubborn  colt,  whose  heels  are  very 
apt  to  annoy  any  injudicious  assailant.  Ten  to  one,  that, 
with  his  fiery  nature,  Beauchampe  finds  cause  of  quarrel 
in  any  homely  truth.  They  may  fight,  and  this  hurts  me 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

nothing.  At  least,  Beauchampe  may  be  a  very  good  foil 
lor  the  first  strokes  of  this  new  enemy.  Barbanas  says  ho 
is  to  be  feared.  If  so,  he  must  be  grappled  with  fearlessly. 
There  is  no  hope  else.  At  all  events,  I  will  see,  by  his 
ssue  with  Beauchampe,  of  what  stuff  he  is  made.  Some 
thing  in  that.  And  yet,  is  all  so  sure  with  this  boy  ?  He 
has  his  whims  ;  is  sometimes  suspicious  ;  obstinate  as  a  mule 
when  roused  ;  and  has  some  ridiculous  notions  about  virtue, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  At  least,  he  must  be  managed 
cautiously — very  cautiously  !" 

We  leave  the  office  of  Colonel  Warham  P.  Sharpe  for  a 
while,  to  attend  the  progress  of  the  young  man  of  whom  he 
was  speaking. 


BEA0CHAMPE    AT    LJQM1. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

BEAUCHAMPE  AT   HOME. 

BEAUCHAMPE  was  on  his  way  to  the  maternal  mansion 
We  have  already  endeavored  to  afford  the  reader  some 
idea  of  the  character  of  this  person.  It  does  not  need  that 
we  should  dilate  more  at  large  on  the  abstract  constituents 
of  his  nature.  We  may  infer  that  his  mind  was  good,  from 
the  anxiety  which  his  late  teacher  displayed  to  have  it  put 
in  requisition  in  his  behalf  during  the  political  campaign 
which  was  at  hand.  The  estimate  of  his  temperament  by 
the  same  person  will  also  be  sufficient  for  us.  That  he  was 
of  high,  manly  bearing,  and  honorable  purpose,  we  may 
also  conclude  from  the  share  which  he  took  in  the  prece 
ding  dialogue. 

Of  his  judgment,  however,  doubts  may  be  entertained. 
With  something  more  than  the  ardor  of  youth,  Beauchampe 
had  all  of  its  impatience.  He  was  of  that  fiery  mood,  when 
aroused,  which  too  effectually  blinds  the  possessor  to  the 
strict  course  of  propriety.  His  natural  good  sense  was  but 
too  often  baffled  by  this  impetuosity  of  his  temper;  and, 
though  in  the  brief  scene  in  which  he  has  been  suffered  to 
appear,  we  have  beheld  nothing  in  his  deportment  which 
was  not  becomingly  modest  and  deliberate,  we  are  con 
strained  to  confess  that  the  characteristic  of  much  deliber* 
ation  is  not  natural  to  him,  and  was  induced,  in  the  present 
instance,  by  a  sense  of  his  late  elevation  to  a  new  and  ex- 


**)  BEAUCHAMPR. 

acting  profession  ;  the  fact  that  lie  was  in  the  presence  of 
his  late  teacher;  and  that  he  had,  the  night  before,  partici 
pated,  however  unconsciously,  in  a  debauch,  of  the  perform 
ances  of  which  he  was  really  most  heartily  ashamed.  His 
manner  has  therefore  been  subdued,  but  only  for  a  while. 
We  shall  see  him  before  long  under  very  different  aspects ; 
betraying  all  the  ardor  and  impetuosity  of  his  disposition, 
and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  not  always  in  that  way  winch 
is  most  favorable  to  the  shows  <?f  judgment. 

Beauchampe  was  the  second  son  of  a  stancli  Kentucky 
farmer.  He  had  received  quite  as  good  an  education  as 
the  resources  of  the  country  at  that  time  could  afford. 
This  education  was  not  very  remarkable,  it  is  true ;  but, 
with  the  advantage  of  a  lively  nature  and  retentive  mem 
ory,  it  brought  into  early  exercise  all  the  qualities  of  his 
really  excellent  intellect.  He  became  a  good  English 
speaker,  and  a  tolerable  Latin  scholar.  Tie  read  with 
avidity,  and  studied  witli  industry  ;  and,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  was  admitted  to  the  practice  of  law  in  the 
courts  of  the  state.  This  probation  over,  with  the  natural 
feeling  of  a  heart  which  the  world  has  not  yet  utterly 
weaned  from  the  affections  and  dependencies  of  its  youth, 
he  was  hurrying  home  to  his  mother  and  sisters,  to  receive 
their  congratulations,  and  share  with  them  the  pride  and 
delight  which  such  an  occasion  of  his  return  would  natu 
rally  inspire. 

Hitherto,  his  mother  and  sisters  have  had  all  his  affec 
tions.  The  blind  deity  has  never  disturbed  his  repose,  di- 
rcrted  his  eyes  from  these  objects  of  his  regard,  or  intcr- 
Aired  with  his  mental  cogitations.  Dreams  of  ambition  were 
in  his  mind,  but  not  yet  with  sufficient  strength  or  warmth 
as  to  subdue  the  claims  of  that  domestic  love  which  Xhe 
kindnesses  of  a  beloved  mother,  and  the  attachments  of  dear 
sisters,  had  impressed  upon  his  heart.  Ho  had  his  images 
of  beauty,  perhaps,  along  with  his  images  of  glory,  but  they 
were  rather  the  creations  of  a  lively  fancy,  in  moments  of 


BEAOCHAMPE    AT    HOME.  81 

mental  abstraction,  than  any  more  real  impressions  upon 
the  unwritten  tablets  of  his  soul. 

These  were  still  fair  and  smooth.  His  life  had  not  been 
touched  by  many  griefs  or  annoyances.  His  trials  had 
been  few,  his  mortifications  brief.  He  was  not  yet  con 
scious  of  any  wants  which  would  induce  feelings  of  care  and 
anxiety ;  and,  with  a  spirit  gradually  growing  lighter  and 
more  elastic,  as  the  number  of  miles  rapidly  diminished  be 
neath  the  feet  of  his  horse,  he  forgot  that  he  was  alone  in 
his  journeyings ;  a  light  heart  and  a  lively  fancy  brought 
him  pleasant  companions  enough,  that  beguiled  the  time, 
and  cheered  the  tediousness  of  his  journey.  The  youth  was 
thinking  of  his  home  —  and  what  a  thought  is  that  in  the 
bosom  of  youth  !  The  old  cottage  shrunk  up  in  snug  little 
ness  among  the  venerable  guardian  trees,  and  the  green 
grass-plat  and  the  half-blind  house-dog,  and  a  thousand  ob 
jects  besides,  forced  themselves,  through  the  medium  of  his 
memory,  upon  his  delighted  imagination.  Then  he  beheld 
his  sisters  hurrying  out  to  meet  him  —  Jane  running  for 
dear  life,  half  mad,  and  shouting  back  to  Mary,  the  more 
grave  sister,  who  slowly  followed.  Jane  shrieking  with 
laughter,  and  Mary  with  not  a  word,  but  only  her  extended 
hand  and  her  tears  ! 

Strange  !  that  even  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  while  these 
were  the  satisfying  images  in  his  mind,  there  should  intrude 
another  which  should  either  expel  these  utterly,  or  should 
persuade  him  that  they  were  not  enough  to  satisfy  his  mind 
or  confer  happiness  upon  his  heart.  Why,  when,  in  his 
dreaming  fancy,  these  dear  sisters  appeared  so  lovely  and 
were  so  fond,  why  should  another  form  —  itself  a  fancy  — 
arise  in  the  midst,  which  should  make  him  heedless  and 
forgetful  of  all  others,  and  fixed  only  on  itself!  The  eye 
of  the  youth  grew  sadder  as  he  gazed  and  felt  He  no 
longer  spurred  his  steed  impatiently  along  the  path,  but, 
forgetful  in  an  instant  of  his  progress,  he  mused  upon  the 
heart's  ideal,  which  a  passing  fancy  had  presented,  and 


82  BEAUCHAMPE. 

all  the  bright  sweet  domestic  form:  vanished  from  his 
sight. 

The  feeling  of  Beauchampe  was  natural  enough.  He  felt 
it  to  be  so.  It  was  an  instinct  which  every  heart  of  any 
sensibility  must  feel  in  progress  of  time  ;  even  though  the 
living  object  be  yet  wanting  to  the  sight,  upon  which  the 
imagination  may  expend  its  own  colors  in  seeking  to  estab 
lish  the  identity  between  the  sought  and  the  found. 

But  was  it  not  late  for  him  to  feel  this  instinct  for  the 
first  time  ?  Why  had  he  not  felt  it  before  ?  Why,  just  at 
that  moment — just  when  his  fancy  had  invoked  around  him 
all  the  images  which  had  ever  brought  him  happiness  be 
fore — forms  which  had  supplied  all  his  previous  wants  — 
smiles  and  tones  which  had  left  nothing  which  he  could  de 
sire —  why,  just  then,  should  that  foreign  instinct  arise  and 
expel,  as  with  a  single  glance,  the  whole  family  of  joys 
known  to  his  youthful  heart.  Expelling  them,  indeed,  but 
only  to  awaken  him  to  the  conviction  -of  superior  joys  and 
possessions  far  more  valuable. 

It  was  an  iastinct,  indeed  ;  and  never  was  youthful  mind 
so  completely  diverted,  in  a  single  instant,  from  the  consid 
eration  of  a  long  succession  of  dear  thoughts,  to  that  of  one, 
now  dearer  perhaps  than  all,  but  which  had  never  made 
one  of  his  thoughts  before. 

He  now  remembered  that,  of  all  his  schoolmates  and 
youthful  associates,  there  had  not  been  one,  who  had  not 
professed  a  passionate  flame  for  some  smiling  damsel  in  his 
neighborhood.  Among  his  brother  students-at-law,  that 
they  should  love  was  quite  as  certain  as  that  they  should 
have  frequent  attacks  of  the  passion,  and  of  course,  on  each 
occasion,  for  some  different  object. 

He  alone  had  gone  unscathed.  He  alone  had  run  the 
gauntlet  of  smiles  and  glances,  bright  eyes  and  lovely 
cheeks,  without  detriment.  The  thought  had  never  dis 
turbed  him  then,  when  he  wa«  surrounded  by  beauty ;  why 
should  it  now,  when  no  apparent  object  of  passion  was  nigh 


BEAUCHAMPE    AT    HOME.  83 

him,  and  when  but  a  small  distance  from  his  mother's  farm 
he  had  every  reason  to  think  only  of  that  and  the  dear  rel 
atives  which  there  awaited  him?  There  was  a  fatality 
in  it! 

At  that  moment  he  was  roused  from  his  reveries  by  a 
pistol-shot  which  sounded  in  the  wood  a  little  distance  be 
fore  him. 

The  circumstance  was  a  singular  one.  The  wood  was 
very  close  and  somewhat  extensive.  He  knew  the  spot 
very  well.  It  was  scarcely  more  than  a  mile  from  his  moth 
er's  cottage.  He  knew  of  no  one  in  the  neighborhood  who 
practised  pistol-shooting ;  but,  on  this  head,  he  was  not  ca 
pable  to  judge.  He  had  been  absent  from  his  home  for 
two  years.  There  might — there  must  have  been  changes. 
At  all  events  no  mischief  seemed  to  be  afoot.  There  was 
but  one  shot.  He  himself  was  safe,  and  he  rode  forward, 
relieved  somewhat  of  his  reveries,  at  a  trifling  increase  of 
speed. 

The  road  led  him  round  the  wood  in  which  the  shot  had 
been  heard,  making  a  sweep  like  a  crescent,  in  order  to 
avoid  some  rugged  inequalities  of  the  land.  As  he  followed 
its  windings  he  was  suddenly  startled  to  see,  just  before 
him,  a  female,  well-dressed,  tall,  and  of  a  carriage  unusu 
ally  firm  and  majestic.  Under  her  arm  she  carried  a  small 
bundle  wrapped  up  in  a  dark  silk  pocket-handkerchief. 

She  crossed  the  road  hastily,  and  soon  buried  herself  out 
of  sight  in  the  woods  opposite.  She  gave  him  but  a  single 
glance  in  passing,  but  this  glance  enabled  him  to  distin 
guish  features  of  peculiar  brilliancy  and  beauty.  The  mo 
ment  after,  she  was  gone  from  sight,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  pathway  grew  suddenly  dark.  Her  sudden  appear 
ance  and  rapid  transition  was  like  that  of  a  gleam  of  sum 
mer  lightning. 

Involuntarily  he  spurred  his  horse  forward,  and  his  eyes 
peered  keenly  into  the  wood  which  she  had  entered.  He 
could  still  see  the  white  glimmer  of  her  garments.  He 


84  BEAUCHAMPE. 

stopped,  like  one  bewildered,  to  watch.  At  one  moment 
he  felt  like  dismounting  and  darting  in  pursuit  of  her.  But 
such  impertinence  might  receive  the  rebuke  which  it  merit 
ed.  She  did  not  seem  to  need  any  service,  and  on  no  other 
pretence  could  he  have  pursued. 

He  grew  more  and  more  bewildered  while  he  gazed,  and 
mused  upon  the  incident.  This  vision  was  so  strange  and 
startling ;  and  so  singularly  in  unison  with  the  fancies 
which  had  just  before  possessed  his  mind.  That  his  heart 
should  now,  for  the  first  time,  present  him  with  an  ideal 
form  of  attraction  and  delight,  and  that,  a  moment  after,  a 
form  of  beauty  should  appear,  so  unexpectedly,  in  so  unu 
sual  a  place,  was  at  least  a  very  strange  coincidence. 

Nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  that  the  fancy  of  the 
young  man  should  find  these  two  forms  identical.  It  is  an 
easy  matter  for  the  ardent  nature  to  deceive  itself.  But 
here  another  subject  of  doubt  presented  itself  to  the  mind 
of  Beauchampe.  Was  this  last  vision  more  certainly  real 
than  the  former  ?  It  was  no  longer  to  be  seen.  Had  he 
seen  it  except  in  his  mind's  eye,  where  the  former  bright 
ideal  had  been  called  up  ?  So  sudden  had  been  the  ap 
pearance,  so  rapid  the  transition,  that  he  turned  from  the 
spot  now  half  doubting  its  reality.  Slowly  he  rode  away, 
musing  strangely,  and  we  may  add  sadly  —  often  looking 
back,  and  growing  more  and  more  bewildered  as  he  mused, 
until  relieved  and  diverted  by  the  more  natural  feelings 
of  the  son  and  brother,  as,  the  prospect  opening  before  his 
eyes,  he  beheld  the  farmstead  of  his  mother. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  old  cottage  stood  the  venerable 
woman,  while  the  two  girls  were  approaching,  precisely  as 
his  fancy  had  shown  them,  the  one  bounding  and  crying 
aloud,  the  other  moving  slowly,  and  with  eyes  which  were 
already  moist  with  tears.  They  had  seen  him  before  he 
had  sufficiently  awakened  from  his  reveries  to  behold  them. 

"  Ah,  Jane  —  dear  Mary  !"  were  the  words  of  the  youth, 
throwing  himself  from  the  horse  and  severally  clasping 


BEAUCHAMFE    AT    HOME.  85 

them  in  his  arras.  The  former  laughed,  sang,  danced,  and 
capered.  The  latter  clung  to  the  neck  of  her  brother,  sob 
bing  as  heartily  as  if  they  were  about  to  separate. 

"  Why,  what's  Mnry  crying  for,  I  wonder?71  said  the 
giddy  girl. 

"  Because  my  heart's  so  full,  I  must  cry,"  murmured  the 
other.  Taking  an  arm  of  each  in  his  own,  Bcauchampe 
led  them  to  the  old  lady,  whose  crowning  embrace  was  be 
stowed  with  the  warmth  of  one  who  clasps  and  confesses 
the  presence  of  her  idol. 

We  pass  over  the  first  ebullitions  of  domestic  love.  Most 
people  can  imagine  these.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  ours  is 
a  family  of  love.  They  have  been  piously  brought  up. 
Mrs.  Beauchampe  is  a  woman  of  equal  benignity  and  intel 
ligence.  They  have  their  own  little  world  of  joy  in  and 
among  themselves.  The  daughters  are  single-hearted  and 
gentle,  and  no  small  vanities  and  petty  strifes  interfere  to 
diminish  the  confidence  in  one,  and  another,  and  themselves, 
which  brings  to  them  the  hourly  enjoyment  of  the  all-in-all 
content.  It  will  not  be  hard  to  fancy  the  happiness  of  the 
household  in  the  restoration  of  its  tall  and  accomplished 
son — tall  and  handsome,  and  so  kind,  and  so  intelligent, 
and  just  now  made  a  lawyer  too !  Jane  was  half  beside 
herself,  and  Mary's  tears  were  constantly  renewed  as  they 
looked  at  the  manly  brother,  and  thought  of  these  things. 

"  But  why  did  you  ride  so  slow,  Orville  ?"  demanded 
Jane,  as  she  sat  upon  his  knee  and  patted  his  cheek.  Mary 
was  playing  with  his  hair  from  behind.  "  You  came  at  a 
snail's  pace,  and  didn't  seem  to  see  anybody  ;  and  there  was 
I  hallooing  to  make  you  hear,  and  all  for  nothing." 

"  Don't  worry  Orville  with  your  questions,  Jane,"  said 
the  more  sedate  Mary.  "  He  was  tired,  perhaps — " 

"  Or  his  heart  was  too  full  also,"  said  Jane,  interrupting 
her  mischievously.  "  But  it's  not  either  of  these,  I'm  sure, 
Orville,  for  I  know  horseback  don't  tire  you,  and  I'm  sure 
your  heart's  not  so  very  full,  for  you  havVt  shed  a  tear 


30  BEAUCHAMPE 

ret.  No,  no !  it's  something  else,  for  you  not  only  rode 
slow,  but  you  kept  looking  behind  you  all  the  while,  as  if 
you  were  expecting  somebody.  Now,  who  were  you  look 
ing  for  ?  Tell  me,  tell  Jane,  dear  brother !" 

Now  you  hit  it,  Jane  !  The  reason  I  rode  slowly  and 
looked  behind  me  —  mind  me,  I  rode  pretty  fast  until  I 
came  almost  in  sight  of  home  —  was,  because  I  did  expect 
to  see  some  one  coming  behind  me,  though  I  had  not  much 
cause  to  expect  it  either." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"  That's  the  question.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me;"  and, 
with  these  words,  the  young  man  proceeded  to  relate  the 
circumstance,  already  described,  of  the  sudden  advent  of 
that  bright  vision  which  had  so  singularly  taken  the  place, 
in  our  hero's  mind,  of  his  heart's  ideal. 

"  It  must  be  Miss  Cooke,  mother,"  said  the  girls  with 
one  breath. 

"  And  who  is  Miss  Cooke  ?" 

"  Oh !  that's  the  mystery.  She's  a  sort  of  queen,  I'm 
thinking,"  said  Jane,  "  or  she  wants  you  to  think  her  one, 
which  is  more  likely." 

"Jane!  Jane!"  said  Mary,  who  was  the  younger  sister, 
in  reproachful  accents. 

"  Well,  what  am  I  saying,  but  what's  the  truth  ?  Don't 
she  carry  herself  like  a  queen  ?  Isn't  she  as  proud  and 
stately  as  if  she  was  better  than  anybody  else  ?" 

"  If  she's  a  queen,  it's  a  tragedy -queen,"  said  the  graver 
sister.  "  I  don't  deny  that  she's  very  stately,  but  then  I'm 
sure  she's  also  very  unhappy." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  her  unhappiness  at  all.  I  can't 
think  any  person  so  very  unhappy  who  carries  herself  BO 
proudly." 

"  Pride  itself  may  be  a  cause  of  unhappiness,  Jane,"  said 
the  mother. 

"  Yes,  mamma,  but  are  we  to  sympathize  with  it,  I 
to  know  ?" 


BEAUCHAMl'E    AT    HOME.  87 

"  Perhaps  !  It  is  not  less  to  be  pitied  because  the  owner 
has  no  such  notion.  But  your  brother  is  waiting  to  hear 
something  of  Miss  Cooke,  and,  instead  of  telling  him  who 
she  is,  you're  telling  him  what  she  is." 

"  And  no  better  way,  perhaps,"  said  the  brother.  "  But 
do  you  tell  me,  Mary  :  Jane  is  quite  too  much  given  to 
scandal." 

"  Oh,  brother!"  said  Jane. 

"  Too  true,  Jane  ;  but  go  on,  Mary,  and  let  us  have  a  key 
to  this  mystery.  Who  is  Miss  Cooke  ?" 

"  She's  a  young  lady — " 

"  Very  pretty  ?" 

"  Very  !  She  came  here  about  two  years  ago — just  after 
yon  went  from  Parson  Thurston  to  study  law  —  she  and 
her  mother,  and  they  took  the  old  place  of  Farmer  Davis. 
They  came  from  some  other  .part  of  Simpson,  so  I  have 
heard,  and  bought  this  place  from  Widow  Davis.  They 
have  a  few  servants,  and  are  comfortably  fixed ;  and  Mrs. 
Cooke  is  quite  a  chatty  body,  very  silly  in  some  things,  but 
fond  of  going  about  among  the  neighbors.  Her  daughter, 
who  is  named  Anna,  though  I  once  heard  the  old  lady  call 
her  Margaret — " 

"Margaret  Anna,  perhaps  —  she  may  have  two  names," 
said  the  brother. 

"  Yery  likely ;  but  the  daughter  is  not  sociable.  On  the 
contrary,  she  rather  avoids  everybody.  You  do  not  often 
see  her  when  you  go  there,  and  she  has  never  been  here 
but  once,  and  that  shortly  after  her  first  arrival.  As  Jane 
says,  she  is  not  only  shy,  but  stately.  Jane  thinks  it  pride, 
but  I.  do  not  agree  with  her.  I  rather  think  that  it  is  owing 
to  a  natural  dignity  of  mind,  and  to  manners  formed  under 
other  circumstances  ;  for  she  never  smiles,  and  there  is  such 
a  deep  look  of  sadness  about  her  eyes,  that  I  can't  help 
believing  her  to  be  very  unhappy.  I  sometimes  think  that 
phe  has  probably  been  disappointed  in  love." 

"  Yes,  Mary  thinks  the  strangest  things  about  her.     She 


88  BEAUCHAMPE. 

says  she's  sure  that  she's  been  engaged,  and  that  her  lovor 
has  played  her  false,  and  deserted  her." 

"  Oh,  Jane,  you  mistake  ;  I  said  I  thought  he  might  have 
been  killed  in  a  duel,  or — " 

"  Or  that  he  deserted  her ;  for  that  matter,  Mary,  you've 
been  having  a  hundred  conceits  about  her  ever  since  she 
came  here." 

"  She  is  pretty,  you  say,  Mary  ?"  asked  the  young  man, 
who  by  this  time  had  ejected  Jane  from  his  knee,  and  trans 
ferred  her  younger  sister  to  the  same  place.  ' 

"  Pretty  ?  she  is  beautiful." 

"  I  can't  see  it  for  my  part,"  said  Jane,  "  with  her  solemn 
visage,  and  great  dark  eyes,  that  seem  always  sharp  like 
daggers  ready  to  run  you  through.'* 

"  She  is  beautiful,  brother,  very  beautiful,  but  Jane  don't 
like  her  because  she  thinks  her  proud.  She's  as  beautiful 
in  her  face  as  she  is  noble  in  her  figure.  Her  statcliness, 
indeed,  arises,  I  think,  from  the  symmetry  and  perfect  pro 
portion  of  her  person  ;  for  when  she  moves,  she  does  not 
seem  to  be  at  all  conscious  that  she  is  stately.  Her  move 
ments  are  very  natural,  as  if  she  had  practised  them  all  her 
life.  And  they  say,  mother,  that  she's  very  smart." 

"  Who  says,  sister  ?"  cried  Jane  —  "who  but  old  Mrs. 
Fisher,  and  only  because  she  saw  her  fixing  a  bushel  of 
oooks  upon  the  shelves  at  her  first  coming !" 

"  No,  Jane  ;  Judge  Crump  told  me  that  he  spoke  to  her, 
and  that  he  had  never  believed  a  woman  could  be  so  sensi 
ble  till  then." 

"  That  shows  he's  a  poor  judge.  Who'd  take  old 
Crump's  opinion  about  a  woman's  sense  ?  I'm  sure  1 
wouldn't." 

"  But  Miss  Cooke  is  very  sensible,  brother.  Jane  does 
dislike  her  so !" 

44  Well,  supposing  she  is  sensible,  it's  only  what  she  ought 
to  be  by  this  time.  She's  old  enough  to  have  the  sense  of 
two  young  women  at  least." 


BEAUCHAMPE   AT   HOME.  89 

"  Old  !"  exclaimed  Beauchampe.  "  Tho  lady  I  saw  was 
not  old,  certainly." 

The  suggestion  seemed  to  give  tlie  young  man  some 
annoyance,  which  the  gentle-hearted  Mary  hastened  to  re 
move. 

"  She  is  not  old,  Orville.  Jane,  how  can  you  say  so  ? 
You  know  that  Miss  Cooke  can  hardly  be  over  twenty-one 
or  two,  even  if  she's  that." 

"  Well,  and  ain't  that  old  ?  You,  Mary,  are  sixteen  only, 
arid  I'm  but  seventeen  and  three  months.  But  I'm  certain 
she's  twenty-five  if  she's  a  day." 

The  subject  is  one  fruitful  of  discussion  where  ladies  are 
concerned.  Beauchampe,  having  experience  of  the  two 
sisters,  quietly  sat  and  listened ;  and,  by  the  use  of  a  mod 
erate  degree  of  patience,  soon  contrived  to  learn  all  that 
could  be  known  of  that  neighbor  who,  it  appears,  had  occa 
sioned  quite  as  great  a  sensation  in  the  bosoms  of  the  sis 
ters,  though  of  a  very  different  sort,  as  her  momentary  pres 
ence  had  inspired  in  his  own.  The  two  girls,  representing 
extremes,  were  just  the  persons  to  give  him  a  reasonable 
idea  of  the  real  facts  in  the  case  of  the  person  under  dis 
cussion.  It  may  be  unnecessary  to  add  that  the  result  was, 
to  increase  the  mystery,  and  heighten  the  curiosity  which 
the  young  man  now  felt  in  its  solution. 


90  BEAUCHAMPk, 


CHAPTER   VII. 

PROGRESS   OF  DISCOVERY. 

WHEN  the  first  sensations  following  the  return  of  our 
hero  to  his  home  and  family  had  somewhat  subsided,  the 
enthusiastic  and  excitable  nature  of  the  former  naturally 
led  him  to  dwell  upon  the  image  of  that  strange  lady, 
whose  sudden  appearance  seemed  to  harmonize^ so  singu 
larly  with  the  ideal  of  his  waking  dream.  The  very  morn 
ing  after  his  arrival,  he  sallied  forth  at  an  early  hour,  with 
his  gun  in  hand,  ostensibly  with  a  view  to  birding,  but  re 
ally  to  catch  some  glimpse  of  the  mysterious  peison.  For 
this  purpose,  as  all  the  neighborhood  and  neighboring  coun 
ty  was  familiar  to  him,  he  traversed  the  hundred  routes  to 
and  from  the  farmstead  of  old  Davis,  which  the  stranger 
now  occupied,  and  wasted  some  precious  hours,  in  which 
neither  his  heart  nor  hie  gun  found  game,  in  exploring  the 
deep  wood  whence  the  pistol-shot,  the  day  before,  had  first 
challenged  his  attention. 

But  no  bright  vision  blessed  his  search  that  day.  IJc 
found  nothing  to  interest  his  mind  or  satisfy  his  curiosity, 
unless  it  were  a  tree  which  he  discovered  barked  with  bul 
lets,  where  some  person  had  evidently  been  exercising,  and 
—  assuming  the  instrument  to  have  been  a  pistol — with  a 
singular  degree  of  success.  The  discovery  did  not  call  for 
the  thought  of  a  single  moment;  and,  contenting  himself 
with  the  conjecture  that  sumo  young  rifleman  was  thus 


PROGRESS   OP   DISCOVERY.  91 

"  teaching  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot,"  he  turned  off, 
and,  with  some  weariness,  and  more  disappointment,  raado 
his  way,  birdless,  to  his  cottage. 

But  the  disappointment  rather  increased  than  lessened 
his  curiosity ;  and,  before  two  days  had  passed,  lie  had 
acquired  boldness  enough  to  advance  so  nearly  to  the  dwel 
ling  of  Miss  Cooke,  as,  sheltered  beneath  some  friendly 
shade-trees,  to  see  the  passers  by  the  window,  and  on  one 
or  more  occasions  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  one  object  for 
whom  all  these  pains  were  taken. 

These  glimpses,  it  may  be  said,  served  rather  to  inflame 
than  to  satisfy  his  curiosity.  He  saw  enough  to  convince 
him  that  Mary  was  right,  and  Jane  wrong ;  that  he  was 
not  deceived  in  his  first  impression  of  the  exceeding  loveli 
ness  of  the  mysterious  stranger ;  that  she  was  beautiful 
beyond  any  comparison  that  he  could  make  —  of  a  rare, 
rich,  and  excelling  beauty:  and  slowly  he  returned  from 
his  wanderings,  to  muse  upon  the  means  by  which  he  should 
arrive  at  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of  the  fair  one,  who 
was  represented  to  be  as  inaccessible  as  she  was  fair — like 
one  of  those  unhappy  damsels  of  whom  we  read  in  old  ro 
mances,  locked  up  in  barred  and  gloomy  towers,  lofty  and 
well  guarded,  whose  charms,  if  they  were  the  incentives  to 
chivalry  and  daring,  were  quite  as  often  the  cruel  occasion 
of  bloody  strife  and  most  unfortunate  adventure. 

The  surpassing  beauty  of  our  heroine,  so  strangely  coupled 
with  her  sternness  of  deportment  and  loneliness  of  habit, 
naturally  enough  brought  into  activity  the  wild  imagination 
and  fervent  temperament  of  our  young  lawyer.  By  these 
means  her  beauty  was  heightened,  and  the  mystery  which 
enveloped  her  was  made  the  parent  of  newer  sources  of 
attraction.  Before  three  days  had  passed,  his  sisters  had 
diGcovered  that  his  thought  was  running  only  on  their  fair, 
strange  neighbor ;  and  at  length,  baffled  in  his  efforts  to 
encounter  the  mysterious  lady  in  his  rambles,  he  was  fain 
to  declare  himself  more  openly  at  home,  and  to  insist  that 


92  BEAUCHAMPE. 

liis  sisters  should  call  upon  Miss  Cooke  and  her  mother, 
and  invite  them  to  tea. 

This  was  done  accordingly,  but  with  only  partial  success. 
Mrs.  Cooke  came,  but  not  the  daughter,  who  sent  an  ex 
cuse.  Beauchampe  paid  his  court  to  the  old  lady,  whom 
he  found  very  garrulous  and  very  feeble-minded  ;  but  though 
she  spoke  with  great  freedom  on  almost  every  other  subject, 
he  remarked  that  she  shrunk  suddenly  into  silence  when 
ever  reference  was  made  to  her  daughter. 

On  this  point  everything  tended  to  increase  the  mystery, 
and,  of  course,  the  interest.  He  attended  the  mother  home 
that  night,  in  the  hope  to  be  permitted  to  see  the  daughter  ; 
but  though,  when  invited  to  enter,  he  did  so,  he  found  the 
lele-a-tete  with  the  old  lady — a  half-hour  which  curiosity 
readily  gave  to  dullness — unrelieved  by  the  presence  of 
the  one  object  for  whom  he  sought.  But  a  well-filled  book 
case,  which  met  his  eyes  in  the  hall,  suggested  to  him  a 
mode  of  approach  in  future  of  which  he  did  not  scruple  to 
avail  himself.  He  complimented  the  old  lady  on  the  ex 
tent  of  her  literary  possessions.  Such  a  collection  was  not 
usual  at  that  time  among  the  country-houses  of  that  region. 
He  spoke  of  his  passion  for  books,  and  how  much  he  would 
be  pleased  to  be  permitted  to  obtain  such  as  he  wanted  from 
the  collection  before  him. 

The  old  lady  replied  that  they  were  her  daughter's,  who 
was  also  passionately  fond  of  books ;  that  she  valued  her 
collection  very  highly  —  they  were  almost  her  only  friends 
— but  she  had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Beauchampe  would  readily 
receive  her  permission  to  take  any  that  he  desired  for  pe 
iiisal. 

Beauchampe  expressed  his  gratitude,  but  judiciously  de 
clined  to  make  his  selection  that  night.  The  permission 
necessarily  furnished  the  sanction  for  a  second  visit,  for 
•which  he  accordingly  prepared  himself.  He  suffered  a  day, 
iiowcver,  to  pass — a  forbearance  that  called  for  the  exer 
cise  of  no  small  degree  of  fortitude  —  before  repeating  hia 


PROGRESS   OP   DISCOVERY. 

visit.  The  second  morning,  however,  he  went.  He 
the  young  lady,  for  a  brief  instant,  at  the  window,  while 
making  his  approaches — but  that  was  all !  He  was  admit 
ted,  was  received  by  the  mother,  treated  with  great  kind 
ness,  and  spent  a  full  hour — how  we  say  not — in  company 
with  the  venerable  and  voluble  dame.  She  accorded  him 
the  permission  of  her  daughter  to  use  any  book  in  the  col 
lection,  but  the  daughter  herself  did  not  appear.  He  mus 
tered  courage  enough  to  ask  for  her,  but  the  inquiry  was 
civilly  evaded.  He  was  finally  compelled,  after  lingering 
to  the  last,  and  hoping  against  hope,  to  take  his  departure 
without  attaining  the  real  object  of  his  visit.  He  selected 
a  volume,  however,  not  that  he  cared  to  read  it^  but  simply 
because  the  necessity  of  returning  it  would  afford  him  the 
occasion  and  excuse  for  another  visit. 

The  proverb  tells  us  that  grass  never  grows  beneath  the 
footsteps  of  true  love.  It  is  seldom  suffered  to  grow  be 
neath  those  of  curiosity.  Our  hero  either  read,  or  pro 
tended  to  have  read,  the  borrowed  volume,  in  a  very  short 
space  of  time.  The  next  morning  found  him  with  it  be 
neath  his  arm,  and  on  his  way  to  the  cottage  of  the  Cookes. 
The  grave  looks  of  his  mother,  and  the  sly  looks  of  his  sis 
ters,  were  all  lost  upon  him ;  and,  pluming  himself  sorao- 
wliat  upon  the  adroitness  which  disguised  the  real  purpose 
of  his  visits,  he  flattered  himself  that  he  should  still  attain 
the  object  which  he  sought,  without  betraying  the  interest 
which  he  felt. 

Of  course,  he  himself  did  not  suspect  the  real  motives  by 
which  he  was  governed.  That  a  secret  passion  stirring  in 
his  breast  had  anything  to  do  with  that  interest  which  he 
felt  to  know  the  strange  lady,  was  by  no  means  obvious  to 
his  own  mind. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  motive  by  which  his  con 
duct  was  influenced,  it  did  not  promise  to  be  followed  by 
any  of  the  results  which  he  desired.  His  second  morning- 
call  was  not  more  fortunate  than  the  first.  Approaching, 


94  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Le  saw  the  outline  of  Miss  Cooke's  person  at  an  upper  win, 
dow,  but  she  instantly  disappeared ;  and  he  was  received 
below,  and  wholly  entertained,  by  the  good  old  mother. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that,  with  a  fervent,  passion 
ate  nature,  such  as  Beauchampe's,  this  very  baffling  of  his 
desires  was  calculated  to  stimulate  and  strengthen  them. 
He  was  a  man  of  equally  strong  impulses  and  indomitable 
will.  The  necessary  creature  of  such  qualities  of  mind  is 
a  puritan  tenacity  of  purpose  —  a  persevering  energy,  which 
ceases  altogether,  finally,  to  sleep  in  the  work  of  conquest ; 
or,  at  least,  converts  even  its  sleeping  hours  into  tasks  of 
thought,  and  wild,  vague  dreams  of  modes  and  operations, 
by  which  the  work  of  conquest  is  to  be  carried  on.  The 
momentary  glimpses  of  the  damsel's  person,  which  the  ar 
dent  youth  was  permitted  to  obtain,  still  kept  alive  in  his 
mind  the  strong  impression  which  her  beauty  had  originally 
made.  We  do  not  insinuate  that  this  exhibition  was  de 
signed  by  the  lady  herself  for  any  such  object.  Such  might 
be  the  imputation — nay,  was,  in  after-days,  by  some  of  her 
charitable  neighbors  —  but  we  have  every  reason  for  think 
ing  otherwise.  We  believe  that  she  was  originally  quite 
sincere  4n  her  desire  to  avoid  the  sight  and  discourage  the 
visits  of  strangers.  Whether  this  was  also  the  desire  of 
the  mother,  is  not  so  very  certain.  We  should  suppose,  on 
the  contrary,  that  the  course  of  her  daughter  was  one  that 
afforded  little  real  satisfaction  to  her.  If  the  daughter  re 
mained  inflexible,  the  good  mother  soon  convinced  Beau- 
champe  that  she  was  not;  and,  saving  the  one  topic — the 
daughter  herself — there  was  none  upon  which  good  Mrs. 
Cooke  did  not  expatiate  to  her  visitor  with  the  assured 
freedoms  of  a  friend  of  a  thousand  years.  Any  approach 
to  this  subject,  however,  effectually  silenced  her :  not,  it 
would  seem,  because  she  herself  felt  any  repugnance  to  the 
subject — for  Beauchampc  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that 
her  eyes  brightened  whenever  the  daughter  was  referred 
to  —  but  her  voice  was  hurried  when  she  replied  on  such 


PROGRESS   OF    DISCOVERY.  95 

occasions,  and  her  glance  stealthily  turned  to  the  entrance, 
as  if  she  dreaded  lest  the  sound  should  summon  other  ears 
to  the  apartment. 

The  curiosity  of  Beauchampc  was  further  stimulated  by  a 
general  examination  of  the  contents  of  the  library.  The 
selection  was  such  as,  in  regions  where  books  are  more  in 
requisition,  and  seem  more  in  place,  would  testify  consid 
erably  in  behalf  of  the  judgment  and  good  taste  of  the  pos 
sessor.  They  were  all  English  books,  it  is  true,  but  they 
were  genuine  classics  of  the  best  days  of  British  literature, 
including  the  more  recent  writers  of  the  day.  There  were 
additional  proofs,  in  such  as  he  took  home  with  him,  of  the 
equal  taste  and  industry  of  their  reader.  The  fine  passages 
were  scored  marginally  with  pencil-lines,  and  an  occasional 
note  in  the  same  manner  indicated  the  acquaintance  of  tho 
commentator  with  the  best  standards  of  criticism.  Beau- 
champe  made  another  observation,  however,  which  had  the 
effect  of  leaving  it  still  doubtful  whether  these  notes  were 
made  by  the  present  owner.  They  were  all  in  a  female 
hand.  He  found  that  a  former  name  had  been  carefully 
obliberated  in  every  volume,  that  of  Miss  Cooke  being  writ 
ten  in  its  stead.  Though  doubtful,  therefore,  whether  to 
ascribe  to  her  the  excellent  criticism  and  fine  taste  which 
thus  displayed  itself  over  the  pages  which  lie  read,  this 
doubt  by  no  means  lessened  his  anxiety  to  judge  for  him 
self  of  the  attainments  of  their  possessor;  and  fortune  — 
we  may  assume  thus  much  —  at  length  helped  him  to  the 
interview  which  he  sought. 

The  mother,  one  day,  with  nice  judgment,  fell  oppor 
tunely  sick.  It  is  easier  to  suspect  that  she  willed  this 
event  than  to  suppose  the  daughter  guilty  of  duplicity.  It 
necessarily  favored  the  design  of  Beauchampe.  He  made 
liis  morning  visit,  which  had  now  become  periodical,  was 
ushered  into  the  parlor,  where,  after  a  few  moments,  he  was 
informed  that  Mrs.  Cooke  was  not  visible.  She  pleaded 
indisposition.  Miss  Cooke,  however,  had  instructed  the 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

servant  to  say  to  Mr.  Beauchampe  that  he  was  at  liberty 
to  use  the  library  as  before. 

By  this  time  the  eager  nature  of  Beauchampe  was  excited 
lo  the  highest  pitch  of  anxiety.  So  many  delays  —  such 
raffling — had  deprived  his  judgment  of  that  deliberate  ac 
tion,  without  the  restraint  of  which  the  boundaries  of  con 
vention  are  very  soon  overpassed.  A  direct  message  from 
the  mysterious  lady,  was  a  step  gained.  It  had  the  effect 
of  still  further  unseating  his  judgment,  and,  without  scruple, 
he  boldly  despatched  a  message  by  the  servant,  soliciting 
permission  to  see  Miss  Cooke.  An  answer  was  immediately 
returned  in  which  she  declined  seeing  him.  He  renewed 
the  request  with  the  additional  suggestion  that  he  had  a 
communication  to  make.  This  necessarily  produced  the 
desired  effect.  In  a  few  minutes  she  descended  to  tho 
parlor. 

If  Beauchampe  had  been  fascinated  before,  he  was  cer 
tainly  not  yet  prepared  for  the  commanding  character  of 
that  beauty  which  now  stood  before  him.  He  rose,  trem 
bling  and  abashed,  his  cheeks  suffused  with  blushes,  but  his 
eyes,  thougl  dazzled,  were  full  of  the  eager  admiration 
which  he  felt.  She  was  pimply  clad,  in  white.  '¥!GY  per 
son,  tall  and  symmetrical,  was  erect  and  dignified.  Her 
face  was  that  of  matured  loveliness,  shaded,  not  impaired, 
by  sadness,  and  made  even  more  elevated  and  commanding 
by  an  expression  of  intense  pain  which  seemed  to  mingle 
with  the  fire  of  her  eyes,  giving  a  sort  of  subdued  fierce 
ness  to  her  glance,  which  daunted  quite  as  much  as  it  daz 
zled  him.  Perhaps  a  something  of  severity  in  her  look 
added  ',o  his  confusion.  He  stammered  confusedly ;  the 
courage  which  had  prompted  him  to  seek  the  interview, 
failed  utterly  to  provide  him  with  the  intellectual  readiness 
by  which  it  was  to  be  carried  on.  But  the  feminine  instinct 
came  to  his  relief.  The  lady  seated  herself,  motioning 
her  visiter  to  do  the  same. 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  if  you    please.     My  mother   presumes 


PROGRESS    OF    DISCOVERY  97 

ihat  you  are  anxious  to  know  how  she  is.  She  instructs 
me  to  thank  you  for  your  courtesy,  and  to  say  that  her  in 
disposition  is  not  serious.  She  trusts  in  another  day  to  be 
quite  restored. " 

By  this  time  Beauchampe  had  recovered  something  of 
his  confidence. 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure,  Miss  Cooke,  to  hear  this.  I  did 
fear  that  your  mother  was  seriously  suffering.  But  I  can 
not  do  you  and  myself  the  injustice  to  admit  that  I  came 
simply  to  see  her.  No  !  Miss  Cooke,  an  anxiety  to  see  you 
in  person,  and  to  acknowledge  the  kindness  which  has 
given  me  the  freedom  of  your  library,  were  among  the  ob 
jects  of  my  visit." 

The  lady  became  instantly  grave. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  compliment,  but  I  have  long 
since  abandoned  society.  My  habits  arc  reserved.  I  pre 
fer  solitude.  My  tastes  and  feelings  equally  require  it.  I 
am  governed  so  far  by  these,  tastes  and  feelings,  which  have 
now  become  habits,  that  it  will  not  suit  me  to  recognise  any 
new  acquaintance.  My  books  are  freely  at  your  service, 
whenever  you  wish  them.  Permit  me,  sir,  to  wish  you  good 
morning." 

She  rose  to  depart.  Beauchampe  eagerly  started  to  his 
foot. 

"  Stay,  Miss  Cooke.  Do  not  leave  me  thus.  Hear  me 
but  for  a  moment." 

She  resumed  her  seat  with  a  calm,  inflexible  demeanor, 
as  if,  assured  of  her  strength  at  any  moment  to  depart,  she 
had  no  apprehensions  on  the  subject  of  her  detention.  The 
blush  ago.in  suffused  the  cheeks  of  Beuuchampe,  and  the 
rigid  silence  which  his  companion  observed,  as  if  awaiting 
his  utterance,  suddenly  increased  his  difficulties  in  this  re 
spect.  But  the  ice  once  broken,  his  impetuous  temper  was 
resolved  that  it  should  not  freeze  again. 

"  I  know,  Miss  Cooke,"  he  observed,  "  after  what  yon 
have  just  said,  that  I  have  no  right  any  longer  to  trespass 

5 


98  BRAUCHAMPE. 

upon  you,  but  I  dare  not  do  otherwise  —  I  dare  not  depart 
-  I  am  the  slave  of  a  passion  which  has  brought  me,  and 
which  keeps  me  here." 

"  I  must  not  listen  to  you,  Mr.  Beauchampe,"  she  replied, 
rising,  as  if  to  leave  tlic  room. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  exclaimed,  gently  detaining  her  — 
u  forgive  me,  but  you  must." 

1  Must !"  her  eyes  flashed  sudden  fires. 

"  I  implore  the  privilege  to  use  the  word,  but  in  no  offen 
sive  sense.  Nay,  Miss  Cooke  —  I  release  you  —  I  will  not 
seek  to  detain  you.  You  are  at  liberty  —  with  my  lips  only 
do  I  implore  you  to  remain." 

The  proud  woman  examined  the  face  of  the  passionate 
youth  with  some  slight  curiosity.  To  this,  however,  he  was 
insensible. 

i;  You  arc  aware,  Mr.  Bcauchampc,"  she  remarked,  in 
differently,  "  that  your  conduct  is  somewhat  unusual." 

4{  Yes,  perhaps  so.  I  believe  it.  Nay,  were  I  to  think, 
Miss  Cooke,  I  should  perhaps,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
agree  to  pronounce  it  unjustifiable.  But,  believe  me,  it  is 
meant  to  be  respectful." 

She  interrupted  him  :  — 

"  Unless  I  thought  so,  sir,  I  could  not  be  detained  here 
a  moment  longer." 

•'  Surely,  surely,  Miss  Cooke,  you  can  not  doubt  my  re 
spect —  my — 

"  1  do  not,  sir." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  are  so  cold  —  so  repulsive,  Miss  Cooke." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  leave  you,  Mr.  Beauchampe.  It 
will  be  better  for. both  of  us.  You  know  nothing  of  me  ;  I 
nothing  of  you." 

"  You  mistake,  Miss  Cooke,  in  assuming  that  I  know 
nothing  of  you." 

"Ha!  sir!"  she  answered,  rising  to  her  feet,  her  face 
giowmgiike  scarlet,  while  a  blue  vein,  like  a  chord,  divided 


PROGRESS   OF   DISCOVERY  99 

the  high  white  forehead  in  the  midst.  "  What  mean  you, 
what  know  you !" 

"  Much !  I  know  already  that  you  are  alone  among 
women — alone  in  beauty — in  intellect !" 

He  paused.  He  marked  a  sudden  and  speaking  change 
upon  her  features  which  struck  him  as  more  singular  than 
the  last.  The  flush  had  departed  from  her  cheeks,  the  blue 
vein  had  suddenly  sunk  from  sight — a  complete  pallor  over 
spread  her  face,  and  with  a  slight  tremor  over  her  frame, 
she  sank  upon  the  scat  from  which  she  had  arisen.  He 
sprang  forward,  and  was  at  once  beside  her  upon  his  knees. 
He  caught  her  hand  in  his  own. 

"  You  are  sick  —  you  are  ill !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  No  !  I  am  better  now !"  she  answered  in  low  tones. 

"  Thank  God  !''  he  exclaimed.  "  I  feared  you  had  spasms 
— I  dreaded  I  had  offended  you.  You  are  still  so  pale,  Miss 
Cooke  —  so  very  pale!" — and  he  again  started  to  his  feet 
as  if  to  call  for  assistance.  She  arrested  him. 

"  Do  not  alarm  yourself,"  she  said  with  more  firmness. 
"  I  am  subject  to  such  attacks,  and  they  form  a  sufficient 
reason,  Mr.  Beauchampc,  why  I  should  not  distress  stran 
gers  with  them.  Suffer  me  now  to  retire." 

"  Bear  with  me  yet  awhile  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  will  try 
not  to  alarm  or  to  annoy  you.  You  ask  me  what  I  know 
of  you !  nothing,  perhaps,  were  I  to  answer  according  to 
the  fashion  of  the  world  ;  everything,  if  I  answer  according 
to  the  dictates  of  my  heart." 

"  It  is  unprofitable  knowledge,  Mr.  Beauchampe." 

u  Do  not  say  so,  1  implore  you.  I  know  that  I  am  a 
rash  and  foolish  young  man,  but  I  mean  not  to  offend — 
nay,  my  purpose  is  to  declare  the  admiration  which  I  feel." 

"  I  must  not  hear  you,  Mr.  Beauchampe.  I  must  leave 
you.  As  I  said  before,  you  are  welcome  to  the  use  of  my 
books." 

"  Ah !  Miss  Cooke,  it  is  you,  and  not  your  books  which 
nave  brought  me  to  your  dwelling.  Suffer  me  to  see  you 


100  BEAUCHAMPE. 

when  I  come.  Suffer  me  to  know  you  —  to  make  myself 
known  —  to  bring  my  sisters  ;  to  conduct  you  to  them.  They 
will  all  be  so  glad  to  see  and  know  you." 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully,  while  a  sad  smile  rested 
upon  her  lips  as  she  replied :  — 

"  Mr.  Beauchampe,"  she  said,  "  I  will  not  affect  to  mis 
understand  you  ;  but  I  must  repeat,  as  I  have  said  to  you 
before,  I  have  done  with  society.  I  am  in  fact  done  with 
the  world." 

"  Done  with  the  world  !  Oh  !  what  a  thought !  You, 
Miss  Cookc,  you  so  able  to  do  all  with  it !" 

"  You  can  not  flatter  me,  Mr.  Beauchampe.  The  world 
can  be  nothing  to  me.  I  am  nothing  to  it.  To  wear  out 
life  in  loneliness,  forgot,  forgetting,  is  the  utmost  of  my 
hopes  from  the  world.  Spare  me  more.  It  is  not  well,  it 
will  not  be  desirable,  that  any  intimacy  should  exist  be 
tween  me  and  your  sisters." 

"  Oh  !  why  not  ?  they  are  so  gentle,  so  pure  !" 

u  Ah !  no  more,  sir,  I  implore  you;"  her  brow  had  sud 
denly  become  clouded,  and  she  rose.  "  Leave  me  now,  sir 
— I  must  leave  you.  I  must  hear  you  no  longer." 

Her  voice  was  firm.  Her  features  had  suddenly  put  on 
their  former  inflexibility  of  expression.  The  passionate 
youth  at  once  discovered  that  the  moment  for  moving  her 
determination  was  past,  and  every  effort  now  to  detain  her 
would  prejudice  his  cause. 

"You  will  leave  me,  Miss  Cooke  —  you  will  drive  me 
from  you  —  yet  let  me  hope " 

"  Hope  nothing  from  me,  Mr.  Beauchampe.  I  would  not 
have  you  hope  fruitlessly." 

"  The  wish  itself  assures  me  that  I  can  not." 

"  You  mistake,  sir — you  deceive  yourself!"  she  replied 
with  sterner  accents. 

"  At  least  let  me  not  be  denied  your  presence.  Let  me 
see  you.  I  am  not  in  the  world,  nor  of  it,  Miss  Cookc.  Let 
me  sometimes  meet  you  here,  and  if  1  am  forbid  to  speak  of 


PROGRESS   OF    DISCOVERY.  101 

other  things,  let  me  at  least  speak  and  hear  you  speak  of 
these  old  masters  at  whose  feet  I  perceive  you  have  been 
no  idle  student." 

"  Mr.  Beauchampe,  I  can  promise  nothing.  To  consent 
to  receive  and  meet  you  would  be  to  violate  many  an_ inter 
nal  resolve." 

"•  But  why  this  dreary  resolution  ?" 

"  Why  !  —  but  ask  not,  sir.  No  more  from  me  now.  You 
knew  not,  sir — and  you  meant  not — but  you  have  wakened 
in  my  mind  this  morning  many  a  painful  and  dreary  thought, 
winch  you  can  not  dissipate.  I  say  this  to  excuse  myself 
lor  what  might  seem  rudeness.  I  do  not  wish  to  excite 
your  curiosity.  I  tell  you,  sir,  but  the  truth,  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  am  cut  off  from  the  world  —  it  matters  not  how, 
nor  why.  It  is  so  —  and  the  less  I  see  of  it  the  better. 
vv  nen  you  know  this,  you  will  understand  why  it  is  that  I 
should  prefer  not  to  see  you." 

"  Ah  !  but  not  why  I  should  not  seek  to  see  you.  No 
Mips  Cooke,your  dreary  destiny  does  not  lessen  my  willing 
ness  to  soothe  —  to  share  it." 

"  That  can  never  bo." 

"  Do  not  say  so.     If  you  knew  my  heart " 

u  Keep  its  secrets,  Mr.  Beauchampe.  Enough,  sir,  that 
I  know  my  own.  That,  sir,  has  but  one  prayer,  and  that 
is  for  peace  —  but  one  passion,  and -that,  sir " 

"  Is  —  speak,  say,  Miss  Cookc,  tell  me  what  this  passion 
is  ?  Relieve  me  ;  but  tell  me  not  that  you  love  another. 
Not  that  — anything  but  that." 

"  Love  !"  she  exclaimed  scornfully  ;  "  love  !  no,  sir,  1  do 
not  love.  Happily,  I  am  free  from  any  such  weakness-- 
thai  weakness  of  my  sex  !" 

"  Call  it  not  a  weakness,  dear  Miss  Cooko  —  but  a  strength 
—  a  strength  of  the  heart,  not  peculiar  to  your  sex,  but 
the  source  of  what  is  lofty  and  ennobling  in  the  heart  of 
man." 

*'  Ay,  he  has  a  precious  stock  of  it,  HO  doubt ;  but  no  moiv 


102  BEAUCHAMPE. 

of  this,  Mr.  Beauchampc.  I  have  my  passion,  perhaps,  >mt 
surely  love  makes  no  part  of  it." 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  Hate  P  she  cried  with  startling  energy. 

"  Hate  !  ha  !  can  it  be  that  you  hate,  Miss  Cooke  f ' 

"  Ay,  sir,  it  is  possible.  Hate  is  my  passion,  not  the 
only  one,  since  it  produces  another  bearing  its  own  likeness. '' 

"  And  that  ? " 

"  Is  revenge! — Ask  yourself,  with  these  passions  reign 
ing  in  my  heart,  whether  there  is  room  for  anything  more  — 
for  any  other !  There  is  not,  and  you  may  not  deceive 
yourself  with  the  vain  hope  to  plant  any  feebler  passion  in 
a  spot  which  bears  such  poisonous  weeds." 

Thus  speaking  she  left  the  room,  and,  astounded  by  her 
vehemence,  and  by  the  strange  though  imperfect  revelation 
L  which  she  had  made,  Beauchampe  found  himself  alone/ 


DEVELOPMENTS   OF   PASSION.  108 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

DEVELOPMENTS   OF   PASSION. 

HAD  the  words  of  the  lady  fallen  from  the  lips  of  an  ora 
cle,  they  could  not  have  more  completely  fastened  them 
selves  on  the  ears  of  our  hero.  Her  sublime  beauty  as  she 
spoke  those  wild  accents  was  that  of  one  inspired.  Her 
eye  flashed  with  fires  of  a  supernatural  brightness.  Her 
brow  was  lifted,  and  her  hand  smote  upon  her  heart,  when 
she  declared  what  fierce  passions  were  its  possessors,  as  if 
they  themselves  were  impelling  the  blow,  and  the  heart  was 
laat  of  some  mortal  enemy. 

iBeauchampe  was  as  completely  paralyzed  as  if  he  had 
suffered  an  electric  stroke.  He  would  have  arrested  her 
departure,  but  his  words  and  action  were  equally  slow.  He 
had  lost  the  power  of  hands  and  voice  ;  and,  when  he  was 
able  to  speak,  she  had  gone. 

Confused,  bewildered,  and  mortified,  he  left  the  house ; 
and  sad  and  silent  he  pursued  his  way  along  the  homeward 
paths.  Before  he  had  gone  far  lie  was  saluted  with  the 
laughter  of  merry  voices,  and  his  sisters  were  at  his  side. 
What  a  contrast  was  that  which  instantly  challenged  the 
attention  of  his  mind,  between  the  girlish,  almost  childish 
and  characterless  damsels  beside  him,  and^  the  intense,  soul- 
speaking  woman  he  had  left!  How  impertinent  seemed  the 
levity  of  Jane !  how  insipid  the  softness  and  milky  sadness 
of  the  gentle-hearted  Mary  !  The  reflections  of  the  brother 


194  BEAUCHAMP* 

were  in  no  wise  favorable  to  the  sisters,  but  he  gave  no 
utterance  to  the  involuntary  thoughts. 

"  Why,  the  queen  of  Sheba  has  struck  you  dumb,  Brother 
Orville  !"  said  the  playful  Jane.  "  You  have  seen  her  to 
day,  1'in  certain.  That's  the  way  she  always  comes  over 
one.  She  has  had  on  her  cloudy-cap  to-day  for  your  espe 
cial  benefit." 

"  But  have  you  seen  her,  brother  ?"  asked  the  more  timid 
Mary. 

"  To  be  sure  he  has  —  don't  you  see  ?  nothing  less  could 
make  Orville  look  on  us  as  old  Burke,  the  schoolmaster, 
used  to  look  on  him  when  he  put  the  nouns  and  verbs  out 
of  countenance.  He  has  seen  her  to  be  sure,  and  she  came 
out  clothed -in  thunder,  I  reckon.*' 

"  Jane,  you  vex  Orville.  But — you  did  see  her,  brother  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mary,  Jane  is  right." 

"  Didn't  I  toll  you  ?  I  could  see  it  the  moment  J  s^t 
eyes  on  him." 

"  And  don't  you  think  her  very  beautiful,  brother  ?" 

"  Very  beautiful,  Mary." 

"  Yes,  a  sort  of  thunderstorm  beauty,  I  grant  you,"  said 
Jane ;  "  dark  and  dismo.1,  willi  such  keen  Hashes  of  light 
ning  as  to  dazzle  one's  eyes  and  terrify  one's  heart!" 

"  Not  a  bad  description,  June,"  said  the  brother. 

"  To  be  sure  not.  Don't  I  know  her  ?  Why,  Lord  love 
you,  the  first  time  we  were  together  I  felt  all  crumpled  up, 
body  and  soul.  My  soul,  indeed,  was  like  a  little  mouse, 
looking  everywhere  for  a  hole  to  creep  into  and  be  out  of 
the  way  of  danger ;  and  I  fancied  she  was  a  great  tigress 
of  a  mouser,  with  her  eyes  following  the  mouse  every  which 
way,  amusing  herself  with  my  terrors,  and  ready  to  spring 
upon  me  and  end  them  the  moment  she  got  tired  of  the 
sport.  I  assure  you  1  didn't  feel  secure  a  single  moment 
while  I  was  with  her.  I  expected  to  be  gobbled  up  at  a 
moment's  warning." 

u  How  you  run  on,  Jane,  and  so  unreasonably  !"  said  the 


DEVELOPMENTS   OP  PASSION.  105 

gentle  Mary.  "  Now,  brother,  I  think  all  this  description 
very  unlike  Anna  Cooke.  That  she's  sad,  usually,  and 
gloomy  sometimes,  I'm  willing  to  admit ;  but  she  was  very 
kind  and  gentle  in  what  she  had  to  say  to  me,  and  I  believe 
would  have  been  much  more  so,  if  Jane  hadn't  continually 
come  about  us  making  a  great  laughter.  That  she  is  very 
smart  I'm  certain,  and  that  she  is  very  beautiful  everybody 
with  half  an  eye  must  see." 

"I  don't,  and  I've  both  eyes,  and  pretty  keen  ones  too." 

"  Well,  girls,"  said  Beauchampc,  "  I  intend  that  you 
shall  have  a  good  opportunity  to  form  a  correct  opinion  of 
Miss  Cooke  —  her  talents  and  her  beauty.  I  intend  to 
carry  you  both  to  visit  her  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't,  brother,  I  beg  you !  she'll  cat  me  up. 
the  great  mouser !  I  sha'n't  be  a  moderate  mouthful  for 
"her  anger." 

And  the  mischievous  Jane  darted  from  his  side,  and  lifted 
up  her  hand  with  a  manner  of  affected  deprecation. 

Mary  rebuked  her  as  was  usual  on  such  occasions,  and 
her  rebuke  was  somewhat  seconded  by  one  which  was 
more  effectual.  The  brother  betrayed  some  little  displeas 
ure  as  well  in  words  as  in  looks,  and  poor  Jane  contrived 
to  make  the  amende  by  repressing  some  portion  of  that 
lively  temerity  of  temper  which  is  not  always  innocuous  in 
its  pleasantries. 

In  this  way  they  proceeded  to  the  cottage,  where,  in  pri 
vate,  the  young  man  contrived  to  let  his  mother  know  how 
much  he  wns  charmed  with  the  mysterious  lady,  but  not 
how  much  of  his  admiration  he  had  revealed.  On  this 
head,  indeed,  he  was  as  little  capable  as  anybody  else  of 
telling  the  whole  truth.  He  knew  not,  in  fact,  what  he 
had  said  in  the  interview  with  Miss  Cooke.  He  had  felt 
the  impulse  to  say  many  things,  and  in  his  conscience  felt 
that  he  might  have  said  them ;  but  of  the  precise  nature  of 
his  confessions  he  knew  nothing.  Something,  indeed,  he 
might  infer  -from  what  he  recollected  of  the  language  of 

5* 


106  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Anna  Cooke  to  himself.  He  could  easily  comprehend  that 
the  freedom  with  which  she  declared  her  feelings  must 
have  been  induced  in  great  degree  by  the  revelation  of  his 
own;  but,  as  he  had  no  right — and,  by-the-way,  as  little 
wish  —  to  betray  her  secrets,  so  he  naturally  spared  himself 
the  mortification  of  telling  his  own. 

Thus  matters  stood  with  him.  His  mother  listened 
gravely.  She  could  see,  in  the  faltering  tongue  and  flushed 
face  of  her  son,  much  more  of  the  actual  state  of  his  feel 
ings  than  his  words  declared.  She  was  not  satisfied  that 
he  should  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Cooke :  not  that  she  had 
anything  against  that  young  lady  —  she  had  none  of  the 
idle  prejudices  of  her  eldest  daughter — but  that  the  beau 
tiful  stranger — and  she  acknowledged  her  to  be  beautiful 
— did  not  impress  her  favorably.  Mrs.  Beauchampe  was 
a  very  pious  lady ;  and  the  feeling  of  society  is  so  nearly 
allied  to  that  of  pure  religion,  that  when  she  found  Anna 
Cooke  deficient  in  the  one  tendency,  she  naturally  suspected 
her  equal  lack  of  the  other.  But,  in  the  next  place,  if  the 
old  lady  had  her  objections  to  the  young  lady,  she,  at  the 
same  time,  was  too  fond  of  her  son  to  resist  his  wishes  very 
long  or  very  urgently.  She  contented  herself  with  suggest 
ing  some  grounds  of  objection,  which  the  ardency  and  elo 
quence  of  the  latter  found  but  little  difficulty  in  overcom 
ing.  At  all  events,  it  was  arranged  that  Beauchampo 
should  take  his  sisters  the  next  day  to  visit  his  fair,  and, 
so  far,  tyrannical  enslaver. 

From  this  visit,  Beauchampe,  though  without  knowing 
exactly  why,  had  considerable  expectations.  At  least,  he 
did  not  despair  of  seeing  the  young  lady.  The  mother  po 
litely  kept  sick- — much,  it  may  be  added,  to  the  annoyance 
of  hter  daughter.  The  day  came,  and  breakfast  was  scarcely 
over  before  the  impetuous  youth  began  exhibit  his  anxi 
ety.  But  the  sisters  had  to  make  their  toilet,  and  some 
thing,  he  fancied,  was  due  to  his  own.  A  country-girl  has 
her  own  ideas  of  finery,  and,  the  difference  of  taste  aside, 


DEVELOPMENTS   OP    PASSION.  107 

the  only  other  differences  between  herself  and  the  city- 
maiden  are  differences  in  degree.  The  toilet  is  the  altar 
where  Vanity  not  only  makes  her  preparations,  but  says 
her  prayers.  We  care  not  to  ask  whether  Love  be  the 
image  that  stands  above  it  or  not.  Perhaps  there  are  few 
calculations  of  the  young  female  heart  in  which  Love  does 
not  enter  as  an  inevitable  constituent.  Certainly,  few  of 
her  thoughts  are  altogether  satisfactory,  if  they  bear  not 
his  figures  in  the  woof. 

Beauchampe's  sisters  fairly  put  his  patience  to  the  test ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  his  favorite  sister  Mary  was  much  the 
most  laggard  in  her  proceedings.  She  certainly  had  never 
before  made  such  an  unnecessary  fuss  about  her  pretty 
little  person.  At  length,  however,  all  were  made  ready. 
The  party  sallied  forth,  readied  the  house  of  Mrs.  Cooke, 
were  admitted,  and,  after  a  brief  delay,  the  daughter  en 
tered  the  room,  to  a  very  quick  march  beaten  by  the  heart 
of  our  ardent  hero. 

But,  though  this  accompaniment  was  so  very  quick,  the 
entrance  of  Anna  Cooke  was  calm,  slow,  and  dignified,  as 
usual.  She  received  the  party  very  kindly  ;  and  her  efforts 
to  please  them  while  they  stayed  seemed  as  natural  and  un 
constrained  as  if  the  business  of  pleasing  had  been  a  habit 
of  her  life.  Jane's  apprehensions  of  being  eaten  up  soon 
subsided,  and  the  gentle  Mary  had  the  satisfaction  of  bring 
ing  about,  by  some  inadvertent  remark  of  her  own,  an  ani 
mating  conversation  between  her  brother  and  the  lovely 
hostess.  We  say  animated  conversation,  but  it  must  not 
be  supposed  that  it  was  a  lively  one.  The  animation  of 
the  parties  arose  from  their  mutual  earnestness  of  charac 
ter.  The  sanguine  temperament  thus  readily  throws  itself 
into  the  breach,  and  identifies  itself  with  the  most  passing 
occasions.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Beauchampe  found  him 
self  engaged  in  a  brief  and  pleasant  discussion  of  one  of 
those  topics,  arising  from  books,  in  which  the  parties__may 
engage  with  warmth,  yet  witli  >ut  endangering  the  harmony 


108  BEAUCHAMPE. 

of  the  conference;  even  as  a  wild  strain  of  music  —  from 
the  rolling,  rising  organ,  or  the  barbaric  drum  and  Sara 
cenic  trumpet — will  make  the  heart  thrill  and  throb  again, 
with  a  sentiment  of  awe  which  yet  it  would  be  very  loath 
not  to  have  awakened. 

Beauchampe  was  perfectly  ravished,  the  more  particularly 
as  he  did  not  fail  to  see  that  Miss  Cooke  was  evidently  not 
insensible  to  the  spirit  and  intelligence  which  lie  displayed 
in  his  share  of  the  dialogue.  The  presence  of  the  sisters, 
fortunately,  had  the  effect  of  controlling  the  brother  in  the 
utterance  of  those  passionate  and  personal  feelings  which 
had  been  forced,  as  it  were,  from  his  lips  the  day  previous. 
Love  was  unspoken  by  either,  and  yet,  most  certainly,  love 
was  the  only  thought  of  one,  and  possibly,  of  both.  But 
love  is  the  most  adroit  of  logicians.  He  argues  his  case 
upon  the  data  and  criteria  of  a  thousand  far  less  offensive 
topics.  Religion,  law,  politics  ;  art,  science,  philosophy  ; 
all  subjects  he  will  discuss  as  if  he  had  no  other  purpose 
than  to  adjust  their  moot  points  and  settle  their  vexing- 
contrarieties.  The  only  misfortune  is  that  when  he  is  done 
—  nay,  while  he  is  going  on,  one  is  apt  to  forget  the  sub 
ject  in  the  orator.  Special  pleader  that  he  is,  in  what  a 
specialty  all  his  labors  terminate  ! 

When  Anna  Cooke  and  Orvillc  Beauchampe  separated 
that  day,  what  of  the  argument  did  they  remember  ?  Each 
readily  remembered  that  the  speaker  was  most  eloquent. 
Beauchampe  could  tell  you  that  the  fair  debater  was  never 
so  beautiful  in  person,  so  high  and  commanding  in  intellect 
before  ;  and  when  Anna  Cooke  was  alone,  she  found  herself 
continually  recalling  to  her  mind's  eye,  the  bright  aspect 
and  beaming  eyes  of  the  enthusiastic  young  lawyer — so 
earnest,  so  seemingly  unconscious  of  himself,  as  he  poured 
forth  the  overflowing  treasures  of  a  warm  heart,  and  a 
really  well-stored  and  naturally-vigorous  intellect.  She 
saw  too,  already,  how  deeply  she  had  impressed  herself 
upon  his  fancy.  Beauchampe's  heart  had  no  disguises 


DEVELOPMENTS    UK    PASMON.  109 

Strange  feelings  rose  into  her  own.  Strange,  terrible 
thoughts  filled  her  mind  ;  and  the  vague  musings  of  her 
wild  and  scarcely  coherent  spirit,  formed  themselves  into 
words  upon  her  tongue. 

"  Is  not  this  an  avenger !"  she  muttered.  "Is  not  this 
an  avenger  sent  from  heaven  !  I  have  striven  in  vain.  I 
am  fettered.  It  is  denied  to  me  to  pursue  and  sacrifice  the 
victim.  Oh  !  surely  woman  is  the  image  of  all  feebleness. 
These  garments  are  its  badges  ;  and  sanction  obstruction 
and  invite  injustice.  As  I  am,  thus  and  here,  what  hope  is 
there  that  vengeance  can  bo  mine  ?  The  conquest  of  this 
enthusiastic  youth  will  afford  me  the  freedom  that  I  crave, 
the  agent  that  I  need,  the  sacrifice  for  which  only  I  dream 
and  pray.  With  him  the  victim  may  be  sought  and  found 
wherever  he  hides  himself,  and  this  crushed  heart  shall 
once  more  rise  in  triumph  —  this  trampled  pride  be  uplifted 

—  the    pangs   of  this  defrauded  and   lacerated  bosom  bo 
soothed  by  the  sacrifice  of  blood  ! 

"  And  why  should  it  not  be  so  ?  Why  ?  Do  I  live  for 
any  other  passion  ?  Do  I  entertain  any  other  image  in  my 
soul  ?  What  is  love,  to  me,  and  fear,  and  hope,  and  joy  — 
the  world  without  and  the  world  within — what  but  a  dark 
abode  in  which  there  is  but  one  light  —  one  star,  red  and 
wild  —  a  planet  rising  fiery  at  the  birth  of  hate,  only  to  set 
in  blood,  in  the  sacrifice  of  its  victim.  Here  is  one  comes 
to  me  bearing  the  knife.  He  is  mine,  so  declare  his  looks 

—  he   loves   me,   so  equally  speak  his  words  and  actions. 
Shall  I  not  use  his  love  for  my  hate  ?     What  is  his  love  to 
me?      His  love — ha!    ha!    ha!     His  love,   indeed  —  the 
love  of   a  young  ambitious  lawyer.     Is  it  not  rather  the 
perfection   of  vengeance  that  I  should  employ  one  of  the 
tribe  for  the  destruction  of  another ! 

u  But  no  —  no  !  why  should  I  involve  this  boy  in  my  fate  ? 
Why  should  I  make  him  my  instrument  in  this  wild  pur 
pose?  He  is  not  of  the  same  brood,  though  of  that  brother 
hood.  This  youth  is  noble.  He  is  Loo  ardent,  too  impetu- 


110  BEAUCHAMPE. 

one,  for  a  deliberate  design  of  evil.  His  soul  is  generous. 
He  feels — he  feels! — be,  at  least,  is  no  masked,  no  cold 
blooded  traitor,  serpent-like,  crawling  into  the  open  and 
warm  heart  to  beguile  and  sting. 

"  No  —  no!  I  must  not  wrong  him  thus.  He  must  bo 
spared  this  doom.  I  must  bruod  over  it  alone,  and  let  the 
fates  work  it  as  they  may.  Though,  were  he  but  half  less 
ardent — could  I  suspect  him  of  a  baseness — I  should  whet 
the  dagger,  and  swear  him  to  its  use  !  Yes  —  at  any  altar, 
for  that  sacrifice — though  that  altar  be  the  very  one  on 
which  /  am  the  sacrifice — though  it  bear  the  name  of  love, 
and  hold  above  it  his  cruel  and  treacherous  image !" 

Such  were  the  frequent  meditations  of  the  passionate 
and  proud  woman.  Her  mother  prompted  these  not  un- 
frequently  without  intending  it.  She,  with  the  sagacity  of 
an  ancient  dealer,  soon  discovered  the  sort  of  coin  which 
Beauchampe  was  disposed  to  bring  with  him  into  Love's 
crowded  market-place.  She  readily  detected,  in  the  unso 
phisticated  manners  of  Beauchampe,  the  proper  material 
on  which  it  would  be  easy  for  her  daughter  to  work.  The 
intense,  inflammable,  impetuous  nature  was  such  as  a  single 
glance  of  those  dark,  bright  eyes  —  a  single  sentence  from 
that  mellow,  yet  piercing,  sweet,  yet  deep-toned  voice — 
might  light  up  with  inextinguishable  flame — might  prompt 
with  irresistible  impulses.  Of  course,  the  old  lady  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  one  absorbing  passion  which  had  become 
a  mania  in  the  breast  of  her  daughter.  Her  calculations 
went  no  farther  than  to  secure  a  son-in-law  —  but  of  this 
the  daughter  had  no  thought,  only  as  it  might  be  necessary 
to  effect  other  objects.  Her  purpose  was  to  find  an  avenger, 
if  anything ;  and,  even  for  this  object,  we  have  seen,  from 
her  spoken  meditations,  she  was  yet  too  generous  to  seek 
for  such  an  agent  in  one  so  unselfish,  so  true-hearted  as 
Beauchampe  had  appeared. 

But  the  rough-hewing  of  events  was  not  to  be  left  either 
to  mother,  or  daughter,  however  resolved  and  earnest  might 


DEVELOPMENTS    OF"  PASSION. 

be  the  will  which  they  severally  or  mutually  exercised. 
The  strongest  of  us,  in  the  most  earnest  periods  of  our 
lives,  move  very  much  as  the  winds  blow.  It  may  hurt  our 
vanity,  but  will  do  our  real  interests  no  harm  to  declare, 
that  individual  man  is  mostly,  after  all,  only  a  sort  of  moral 
vane  on  the  world's  housetop.  If  you  find  him  stationary 
for  any  length  of  time  be  sure  it  is  less  from  principle  than 
rust. 


BEAUCHAMPF. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

LOVE   AND    LAW. 

"  Denial,  which  is  death, 
Hanps  on  her  lips,  and  from  her  heart  to  mino 
Sends  the  great  agony,  like  an  icy  shaft!" 

THE  progress  of  Beauchampc,  though  in  one  respect  noth 
ing,  was  yet  not  inconsiderable  as  bringing  about  the  devel 
opment  of  his  own  tendencies  and  affections.  In  the  re 
sults  which  his  desires  might  have  suggested  to  his  mind, 
there  had  been  no  sort  of  progress.  He  was  pretty  much 
where  he  was  at  the  beginning.  His  pursuit,  begun  in  his 
instincts,  and  seemingly  from  mere  curiosity,  had,  however, 
brought  him  to  a  better  consciousness  of  the  meaning  of 
that  sudden  fancy  which  -had  prompted  him  to  dream  of  a 
heart-ideal  at  the  moment  when  love  seemed  to  be  the  re 
motest  thing  from  his  thoughts,  lie  now  began  to  feel  that 
a  fate  had  been  busy  to  bring  about  the  ac^uaintan'je  be 
tween  himself  and  the  mysterious  stranger.  He  had  iden 
tified  the  vague  image  of  his  fancy  with  the  fascinating 
woman  whose  charms,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  to  put  his 
passions  into  activity.  Yet  his  thoughts  gave  him  but  little 
encouragement.  He  had  no  such  vanity  as  could  persuadr 
him  that  his  interviews  with  the  object  of  his  fancy  had 
been  productive  of  any  good  to  his  cause  ;  and  his  moments 
of  calmer  reflection  only  taught  him  additional  humility,  a? 
he  felt  how  very  wide  was  the  gulf  that  lay  between  his 
hopes,  his  claims,  and  pretensions,  and  the  very  remarka- 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  113 

able  woman  whom  he  had  begun  to  worship.  lie  did  not 
deceive  himself  for  a  moment  with  the  idea  that  he  had 
made,  or  could  make,  any  impression  upon  her.  He  felt 
that  he  had  not  done  so ;  and  while  he  was  as  eager  in  his 
desires  as  ever,  he  was  full  of  despondency  as  he  examined, 
with  all  the  calmness  possible  to  his  nature,  the  very  slen 
der  foundation  for  his  hopes.  The  startling  character  of 
the  scene  which  we  have  just  described  —  her  terrible  dec 
laration,  so  evidently  earnest  —  the  mysterious  secret  of  her 
life,  the  existence  of  which  it  declared,  but  did  not  eluci 
date —  all  seemed  to  determine  against  the  possibility  of 
any  progress  with  a  nature  at  once  so  wild,  so  powerful, 
and  so  utterly  unlike  the  ordinary  characteristics  of  the  sex 
as  usually  found  in  society. 

But  perseverance,  where  passion  is  the  impelling  power, 
will  sooner  or  later  work  its  way  to  the  object  which  it 
seeks.  It  will  bring  about  the  issue,  certainly,  though  it 
may  be  disappointed  in  its  results.  If  hate  be  intense  on 
the  one  hand,  love,  in  the  case  of  a  determined  will,  is  no 
feeble  opponent;  at  all  events,  the  one  may  be  as  tenacious 
of  its  object  as  the  other:  and  the  fiery  passionn  of  l>eau- 
champe,  if  less  matured  and  less  coricentrativc  than  the  hate 
which  raged  in  the  bosom  of  Anna  Cooke,  were  yet  in 
hourly  training  under  the  guidance  of  a  fate,  which,  as  she 
was  now  beginning  to  think,  contemplated  the  union  of  both 
forces,  for  the  gratification  of  at  least  one  of  the  seemingly 
hostile  passions ! 

We  pass  over  numerous  small  details  in  the  progress  of 
the  parties,  which  were  yet,  in  some  degree,  important  in 
bringing  about  the  general  result.  They  served  gradually 
to  break  down  the  barriers,  of  a  social  kLid,  which  had  hith 
erto  stood  up  as  a  wall  between  the  two  families.  The 
impetuous  nature  of  Beauchampe  had  succeeded  in  tearing 
away  those  which  had  been  set  up  by  his  own.  He  was 
too  much  the  object  of  warm  affection  with  mother  and  sis 
ters  to  suffer  them  very  long  to  maintain  their  hostilities  to 


114  BEAUCHAMPE. 

his  obvious  desires  ;  and,  without  exactly  apprehending  that 
her  son  designed  anything  further  than  the  communion  with 
a  young  woman  whose  intellect  had  won  the  admiration  of 
his  own  —  without  thinking  it  certain,  or  even  probable, 
that  this  communion  would  ripen  into  love  —  for  Mrs.  Beau- 
cliampe  felt  that  there  was  something  repulsive  to  herself 
in  the  character  of  Anna  Cooke,  and  naturally  concluded 
that  the  same  qualities  would  exercise  antagonistic  effects 
to  passion  on  the  part  of  her  son  —  she  at  length  gave  fully 
in  to  his  wishes  that  there  should  be  a  closer  intimacy  be 
tween  her  girls  and  the  beautiful  and  mysterious  stranger. 

This  concession  won,  the  ardent  nature  of  Beauchampe 
pushed  his  advantages  with  due  celerity  and  earnestness. 
He  suffered  no  day  to  escape  without  some  approach  to  the 
mutual  intercourse  of  the  parties  ;  and,  with  even  pace,  Mrs. 
Cooke,  and  even  her  daughter,  became  reconciled  to  the 
frequent  presence  of  the  Beaucharnpes  within  their  house 
hold,  while  the  visits  of  the  strangers,  though  less  frequent, 
were  now  stripped  of  nearly  all  constraint.  Our  young 
lawyer  felt  that  he  had  compassed  a  considerable  degree 
of  ground  when  he  found  himself  admitted  to  continual  in 
tercourse  with  the  Cookes,  as  a  friend  of  the  family.  Mrs. 
Cooke  had  some  unproductive  property,  of  which  she  de 
sired  to  dispose.  She  had  certain  ancient  claims,  which 
were  thought  not  beyond  recovery.  There  were  papers, 
and  titles,  and  letters,  which  were  to  be  examined  profes 
.sionally ;  and  young  Beauchampe  was  duly  installed  as  the 
lawyer  of  the  widow  and  her  daughter. 

Lawyer  and  lover !  The  combination  promises  rare  re 
suits  in  logic.  We  shall  see  what  they  are  to  produce 
Usually,  the  one  sinks  himself  in  the  other  character.  Let 
(  the  client  understand  that  this  is  not  certainly  the  fact,  and 
he  considers  his  case  in  bad  condition.  The  lover  will  be 
apt  to  kill  the  lawyer,  in  his  opinion.  He  will  get  out  of 
such  doubtful  custody  before  next  term,  if  this  be  possible 
At  all  events,  he  will  desire  assistant  counsel. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  115 

We  doubt  if  Beauchampe  ever  fully  surrendered  his  mind 
to  the  law-matters  of  Mrs.  Cooke.  We  somewhat  fear  that 
he  considered  all  the  business  a  bore.  At  all  events,  he 
hurried  over  its  details,  whenever  they  conferred  on  the  sub 
ject,  with  what  Mrs.  Cookc  soon  began  to  think  a  singular 
want  of  regard  for  her  interests. 

But  neither  did  he  seem  to  make  much  progress  with  his 
own.  Though  he  turned  away  from  the  mother  to  the 
daughter,  leaving  the  law  to  shift  fur  itself,  yet  love  with 
the  latter  was  an  interdicted  subject. 

But  when,  and  for  how  long,  will  love  stay  interdicted  ? 

Can  you  answer,  gentle  reader  ?  What  is  your  experi 
ence  of  the  matter  ?  As  easily  curb  the  tides,  chain  the 
winds,  arrest  the  flight  of  birds  in  their  season  —  do  any 
other  impossible  thing  —  with  the  subtlest  agencies  of  life 
and  nature  working  with  an  indomitable  will,  and  under  the 
impulse  of  a  law  the  secret  of  which  no  man  can  claim- to 
fa  thorn. 

Beauchampe  was  under  interdict  of  law. 

Love  was  under  interdict  on  Beuuehampo's  lips. 

But  love  could  not  be  put  under  interdict  in  Bcauchampc's 
heart  - 

And  the  wild  blood  of  Beauchampe  was  of  such  fiery  im 
pulse,  that  it  never  yet  had  bowed  submissively  to  law. 

What  curbed  him  for  a  while,  and  made  him  submissive, 
in  appearance,  to  the  interdict,  was  awe,  veneration,  the 
humility  of  his  hope,  the  fear  lest  he  should  prejudice  and 
lose  his  case  by  precipitation.  Tn  brief,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  he  called  in  Prudence  to  his  aid. 

Now,  when  Love  makes  an  ally  of  Prudence,  it  becomes 
a  very  formidable  power.  It  was  the  onl}r  ally  who  could 
possibly  have  served  Beauchampe  in  his  approaches  to  Anna 
-Cookc.  It  disarmed  her  vigilance  in  the  first  place  ;  it  in 
creased  his  own ;  and  sap  may  enable  one  to  overcome  the 
fortress  which  resists  the  most  terrible  assault. 

Time  wrought  favorably  for  Beauchampe.     It  enabled 


116  BEAUCHAMPE. 

him  to  show  his  resources  of  mind  and  character — above 
all,  the  ingenuous  and  impulsive,  the  frank  and  faithful,  the 
solicitous  and  confiding,  the  dutiful  and  considerate  — 
W-iich,  in  spite  of  his  fiery  passions,  were  the  predominant 
virtues  of  his  mind  and  heart. 

Anna  Cooke  gradually  took  pleasure  in  seeing  him.  She 
found  him  both  abler  in  intellect  and  gentler  of  disposition 
than  she  had  fancied  him  at  first.  His  amenities,  prompted 
as  much  by  his  fears  of  the  loss  of  her  favor,  had  greatly 
controlled  the  natural  audacity  of  his  blood,  and  the  pru 
dence  of  his  approach  gradually  served  to  quiet  her  suspi 
cions.  She  somewhat  relaxed  in  that  vigilant  watch  of  eye 
and  ear  which  she  had  maintained  over  his  first  approaches. 
She  no  longer  looked  for  the  equivocal  in  his  speech ;  no 
longer  encountered  the  doubtful  with  asperity.  The  way 
was  gradually  smoothing  for  the  approach  of  other  powers. 
The  small  pioneer  virtues,  which  Passion  so  cunningly  em 
ploys  .under  the  guidance  of  that  great  engineer  Prudence, 
were  doing  wonders  in  the  cause  of  a  despot,  who,  as  yet, 
judiciously  kept  his  standard  out  of  sight. 

Anna  Cooke  was  really  getting  to  be  quite  pleased  when 
Beauchampe  looked  in  of  a  morning,  or  strolled  in  to  tea, 
unaccompanied  by  his  sisters,  of  an  evening. 

It  is  one  of  the  natural  arts  of  Love  to  excite  the  sensi 
bilities  into  the  most  commanding  activity,  even  while  it 
refines  and  purifies  the  tastes ;  to  subdue  all  the  sharpnes 
ses  of  character,  even  as  it  subdues  the  asperities  of  tone 
and  accent  in  the  voice  ;  to  throw  into  the  eyes  a  mild,  per 
suasive  expression  of  entreaty  and  solicitude ;  a  hesitating 
tenderness  into  the  utterance ;  and,  above  all,  so  certainly, 
and  even  suddenly,  to  elevate  the  mind,  that  even  the  vul 
gar  nature  and  the  inferior  understanding  become  modified 
and  enlarged  under  its  influence  —  and  Ignorance  itself 
seems,  as  if  under  inspiration,  to  receive  such  an  increase 
of  intelligence,  that  its  speech  shall  rarely  declare  its  defi 
ciencies. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  117 

Now,  though  by  no  means  a  wise,  learned,  or  greatly- 
gifted  youth,  Bcauchampe  was  neither  vulgar  nor  ignorant. 
Still,  at  the  beginning  of  his  intercourse  with  Anna  Cooke, 
he  was  full  of  those  salient  points  of  character  and  manner 
which  exhibit  the  lack  of  that  refining  attrition  of  society 
which  no  course  of  education  can  well  supply.  And  some 
of  these  saliences  grated  upon  Anna  Cooke  on  his  first 
interview  with  her. 

But,  in  a  single  week,  all  this  was  altered.  Love  carries 
with  it  those  instincts  of  good  taste,  those  solicitous  scnsi 
bilities,  that  refinement  becomes  inevitable  under  its  pres 
ence  ;  arid  without  his  own  consciousness,  perhaps,  though 
it  did  not  escape  hers,  the  bearing,  the  whole  carriage  and 
deportment,  tone  and  manner,  of  Beauchampe,  underwent 
.rapid  transition.  From  the  rough,  sturdy,  confident  rustic 
—  almost  insolent  in  his  independence,  and  very  determined 
upon  his  objects  —  indifferent  to,  if  not  wholly  ignorant  of, 
Uie  higher  polish  of  the  social  world — he  grew,  in  a  single 
•rveek,  into  the  subdued  and  quiet  gentleman,  heedful  always 
of  the  sensibilities  of  those  whom  he  addressed,  and  ten- 
lerly  considerate  of  the  claims  and  rights  of  others.  At  a 
single  bound  he  became  a  gentleman ! 

And  that  word  "  gentleman" —  how  few  have  ever  weighed 
and  properly  taught  its  due  significance !  To  acquire  this 
character  is  one  of  the  first  processes  by  which  we  make  a 
Christian.  Certainly,  no  man  can  be  a  Christian  who  is 
not  first  a  gentleman.  And  this  involves  no  idle  lesson  for 
the  clergy.  Among  writers,  old  Middleton,  the  dramatist, 
seems  to  have  been  almost  the  only  one  who  seems  fully  to 
have  caught  a  just  conception  of  the  character  so  as  to 
define  it.  Incidentally,  he  gives  a  happy  array  of  the  vir 
tues —  not  merely  qualifications,  graces,  and  manners  — 
essential  to  the  gentleman.  His  allusion  to  the  MAN  Christ 
will  only  be  misconstrued  by  blockheads : — 

"  Patience,  my  lord !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace  ; 
Qf  all  the  virtues,  'tis  nearest  kin  to  IJearen . 


118  BFJAUCHAMPE. 

It  makes  men  like  the  gods.     T7ie  best  of  men, 
That  C'CF  wore  earth  about  Urn,  was  a  sufferer; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit, 
Thejirst  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed  !" 

Beauehampe,  under  the  tuition  of  Love,  was  making  great 
progress  toward  becoming  a  gentleman.  Love  first  made 
him  gentle  ;  Prudence  then  brought  in  the  oilier  allies,  Pa 
tience,  Forbearance,  Conciliation,  Solicitude  —  humble  vir 
tues,  serving-brothers  of  the  household,  whose  permitted 
tendance  will  make  of  the  humblest  dwelling — 

"  A  happy  home,  like  heaven  !" 

Beauchampe's  improvement,  under  the  new  course  of  tui 
tion —  under  this  new,  potent,  and  almost  unsuspected 
teacher — was  wonderfully  rapid.  A  few  weeks  had  made 
the  most  surprising  changes  in  bearing,  sentiment,  charac 
ter,  nay,  in  the  very  expression  of  his  face.  Hi?  features 
—  and  the  fact  belongs  to  the  studies  of  the  psychologist  in 
especial,  as  significant  of  what  the  refining  arts  did  for  the 
Greek  soul  and  character  —  his  very  features,  though  not 
wanting  in  a  certain  nobleness  before,  had  become  softened, 
sweetened,  spiritualized  as  it  were,  in  the  wonderful  prog 
ress  which  the  gentler  virtues  had  been  making  in  his  heart. 

The  result  did  not  escape  the  attention  of  Anna  Cooke. 
She  was  not  insensible  to  the  singular  and  interesting 
change  in  his  features  since  the  time  when  she  first  saw 
him.  It  surprised  even  her,  who  was  ordinarily  so  indif 
ferent  to  external  aspects.  It  gradually  affected  her  own 
feelings,  as  it  conveyed  an  exquisite  compliment  to  her  own 
influence.  She  saw  the  beginning  of  this  improvement  of 
the  young  man,  in  the  birth  of  his  devotion  to  herself.  She 
began  to  feel  a  certain  sympathy  with  the  progress  of  a  sen 
timent  which  was  so  powerful  arid  at  the  same  time  so  un 
obtrusive,  so  little  claiming  or  aspiring.  Not  that  she 
dreamed  to  encourage  it.  How  could  she  1  That  was  im 
possible  !  So  she  said  to  herself,  whenever  she  thought 
upot  the  subject.  We  have  seen  her  expressed  reflections 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  1U 

She  renewed  them.  Her  mind  was  as  unmoved  as  ever. 
The  changes,  whatever  they  might  be,  were  confined  wholly 
to  her  tastes  and  sensibilities.  But  these,  after  all,  are  tlie 
true  provinces  in  which  true  love  is  decreed  to  work ! 

Her  mental  opinions  and  resolves  had  undergone  no 
change.  Nay,  they  grew  stronger,  by  a  natural  tendency, 
as  her  interest  in  the  young  man  increased.  She  resolved 
that  lie  should  not  be  sacrificed ;  and  this  resolve  was  the 
necessary  parent  of  another.  She  could  never  give  encour 
agement  to  the  object  of  her  present  lover.  She  could 
never  be  his  wife.  No !  she  already  felt  too  much  inter 
ested  in  the  youth,  to  use  her  own  energetic  language,  ut 
tered  in  midnight  soliloquy,  "  to  dishonor  him  with  her 
hand  !"  She  was  not  conscious  of  the  sigh  which  fell  from 
her  lips  when  this  determination  was  spoken.  She  was  not 
conscious,  and  consequently  not  apprehensive,  of  the  prog 
ress  which  a  new  passion  was  making  in  her  heart.  That 
sigh  had  its  signification,  but  this,  though  it  fell  from  her 
own  lips,  was  inaudible  to  her  own  ears. 

Laboring  under  this  unconsciousness  with  regard  to  her 
own  feelings,  it  was  perhaps  not  so  great  a  stretch  of  mag 
nanimity,  on  her  part,  to  resolve  that  Beauchampe  should 
not  be  permitted  to  serve  her  brooding  hatred,  or  to  share 
in  her  secret  sorrows.  Such  was  her  determination. 

One  day,  ho  grew  more  warm  in  his  approaches.  Cir 
cumstances  favored  his  object,  and  the  topics  which  they 
had  discussed,  on  previous  occasions,  insensibly  encouraged 
this.  Suppressing  his  eagerness  of  manner,  putting  as  much 
curb  as  he  could  on  the  impatient  utterance  which  was  only 
too  habitual  to  him  where  his  feelings  were  excited,  he 
strove,  in  the  most  deliberate  form  of  address,  to  declare 
his  passion,  and  to  solicit  her  hand. 

"  Mr.  Beauchampe,"  she  said  firmly,  "  I  thank  you.  I 
am  grateful  for  this  proof  of  your  regard  and  attachment ; 
and,  in  regretting  it,  I  implore  you  not  to  suspect  me  of 
caprice,  or  a  wanton  desire  to  exercise  the  power  which 


v 

K. 


120-  BEAUCHAMPE. 

your  unhappy  preference  confers  on  me.  Nor  am  I  insen 
Bible  to  your  claims.  Were  it  possible,  sir,  that  I  could 
ever  marry,  I  know  no  one  to  whom  I  would  sooner  intrust 
my  affections  than  to  you.  But  there  is  an  insuperable  bar 
rier  between  us — not  to  be  broken  —  not  to  be  overpassed. 
Never !  never !  never !" 

"  Do  not  speak  thus,  dearest  Miss  Cooke.  Spare  me 
this  utterance.  What  is  the  barrier,  this  insuperable  bar 
rier,  not  to  be  broken,  not  to  be  overpassed  ?  Trust  me,  it 
can  be  broken,  it  can  be  passed.  What  are  the  obstructions 
that  true  love  can  not  remove  ?" 

"  Not  these,  not  these  !  It  is  impossible,  sir.  I  do  not 
deceive  myself — I  would  not  deceive  you  —  but  I  assure 
you,  Mr.  Beauchampe,  that  the  truth  I  declare  is  no  less 
solemn  than  certain.  I  can  never  listen  to  your  prayer  — 
I  can  never  become  your  wife  —  no,  nor  the  wife  of  any 
man !  The  barrier  which  thus  isolates  me  from  mankind 
is,  I  solemnly  tell  you,  impassable,  and  can  not  be  broken." 

"  Suffer  me  to  strive — it  is  not  in  me  that  vour  objec 
tions  arise?" 

"No!  but—" 

"Then  suffer  me  to  try  and  overcome  this  difficulty— 
remove  this  barrier." 

"  It  will  be  in  vain,  sir ;  you  would  strive  in  vain." 

"  Not  so  !  declare  it — say  in  what  it  consists  —  and,  be 
lieve  me,  if  such  talents  as  are  mine,  -such  toils  as  man  can 
devote,  with  such  a  reward  awaiting  him  as  that  which  my 
success  would  secure  for  me,  can  effect  an  object,  I  must 
succeed.  Speak  to  me  freely,  Miss  Cooke.  Show  me  this 
obstacle — " 

"  Never !  never !  There,  at  once,  the  difficulty  rises.  I 
can  not,  dare  not,  reveal  it.  Ask  no  more,  I  entreat  you.  I 
should  have  foreseen  this,  and  commanded  it  otherwise.  I 
have  suffered  your  attentions  too  long,  Mr.  Beauchampe : 
for  your  own  sake,  let  me  forbid  them  now.  They  can 
never  come  to  good.  They  can  have  no  fruits.  Here, 


LOVE   AND   LAW.  121 

before  Heaven,  which  I  invoke  to  hear  me,  I  can  never 

be—" 

"Stay!  —  do  not  speak  it !"  he  exclaimed,  passionately 
catching  her  uplifted  hand,  and  silencing,  by  his  louder  ac 
cent,  the  word  upon  her  lips. 

"Stay,  Miss  Cooke !  be  not  too  hasty  —  be  not  rash  in 
this  decision  ;  I  implore  you,  for  your  sake  and  mine.  Hear 
me  calmly  —  resume  your  seat  but  for  a  few  moments.  / 
will  strive  to  be  calm ;  but  only  hear  me." 

lie  led  her  to  a  seat,  which  she  resumed  with  that  air 
of  recovered  dignity  and  stern  composure  which  shows  a 
mind  made  up  and  resolute.  He  was  terribly  agitated,  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts  at  composure.  His  eyes  .trembled, 
and  his  lips  quivered,  and  the  movements  of  his  frame  were 
almost  convulsive.  But  he  also  was  a  man  of  strong  will. 
But  for  his  youth,  he  had  been  as  inflexible  as  herself.  He 
recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  speak  to  her  in  tones  sur 
prisingly  coherent,  and  with  a  degree  of  thoughtfulncss 
which  showed  how  completely  a  determined  will  can  con 
trol  the  utterance  even  of  extraordinary  passion. 

"  Hear  me,  Miss  Cooke.  I  can  see  that  there  is  a  mys 
tery  about  you  which  I  do  not  seek  to  penetrate.  You 
have  your  secret.  Let  it  be  so  still.  I  love  you,  deeply, 
passionately,  as  I  never  fancied  it  was  possible  for  me  or 
any  man  to  love.  This  passion  rends  my  frame,  distracts 
my  mind  —  makes  it  doubtful  if  I  could  endure  life  in  its 
icnial.  I  have  seen  you  only  to  worship  you.  Lost  to  me, 
I  lose  faith  as  well  as  hope.  I  no  longer  know  my  divini 
ties  ;  I  no  longer  care  for  life,  present  or  future.  Do  not 
suppose  I  speak  wildly.  /  believe  all  that  I  say.  It  must 
be  as  I  say  it.  Now,  hear  me :  to  avoid  this  fate,  I  am 
willing  to  risk  many  evils — dangers  that  might  affright  the 
ordinary  man  under  the  ordinary  feelings  of  man.  You 
spoke  the  other  day  of  having  but  a  single  passion,  which 
was  not  love ! — " 

"  Hate !"  she  interrupted  him  to  say. 

6 


1^2  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Hate,  it  was  —  and  that  gave  birth  to  another  not  un 
like  it." 

"  Revenge !  yes,  revenge !"  such  was  her  second  inter 
ruption.  He  proceeded  :— 

"  I  understand  something  of  this.  You  have  been 
wronged.  You  have  an  enemy.  I  will  seek  him.  I  will 
be  -your  champion  —  die  for  you  if  need  be — only  tell  me 
that  you  will  be  mine  !" 

"  Will  you,  indeed,  do  this  ?" 

She  rose,  approached  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  keen,  fixed,  fixing,  and  fascina 
ting  glance,  like  that  of  a  serpent.  Her  tones  were  very 
low,  very  audible,  but  how  impressive  !  They  sunk  not  into 
his  ear,  but  into  his  heart,  and  a  cold  thrill  followed  them 
there.  Before  he  could  reply,  however,  she  receded  from 
him,  sunk  again  into  her  scat,  and  covered  her  face  in  her 
hands.  He  approached  her.  She  waved  him  ofT. 

"Leave  me,  Mr.  Beauchampe  —  leave  me,  now  and  for 
ever.  I  can  not  hear  you.  I  will  not.  I  need  not  your 
help.  You  can  not  revenge  me." 

"  I  will !  I  can  !  Your  enemy  shall  be  mine.  I  will  pur 
sue  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  !  But  give  me  his  name." 

"No,  you  shall  not!'1  she  said  with  apparent  calmness. 
"Thus  I  reject  your  offer — your  double  offer.  I  will  not 
wrong  your  generosity  —  your  love,  Beauchampe  —  by  a 
compliance  with  your  prayer.  Leave  me  now ;  and,  oh, 
come  not  to  me  again  !  I  would  rather  not  see  you.  I 
feel  for  you  —  deeply,  sincerely  —  but,  no  more.  Leave  me 
now — leave  me  for  ever." 

He  sunk  on  his  knee  beside  her.  lie  clasped  her  hand, 
and  carried  it  passionately  to  his  lips.  She  rose,  and  with 
drew  it  from  his  grasp. 

"Rise,  Beauchampe,"  she  said,  in  subdued  but  firm  ac 
cents.  "  Let  it  lessen  your  disappointment  to  know  that,  if 
I  could  ever  be  the  wife  of  any  man,  you  should  have  the 
preference  over  all.  1  believe  your  soul  to  be  noble.  I  do 


LOVE    ANTD    LAW.  123 

not  believe  you  would  be  guilty  of  a  baseness.  Believing: 
this,  I  will  not  abuse  your  generosity.  You  are  young. 
You  speak  with  the  ardor  of  youth  ;  and  with  the  same 
ardor  you  feel,  for  the  moment,  the  disappointments  of 
youth.  The  same  glow  of  feeling  will  enable  you  to  over 
come  them.  You  will  forget  me  very  soon.  Let  me  en 
treat  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  do  so.  Henceforward,  I 
will  assist  you  in  the  effort.  I  will  not  sec  you  again." 

A  burst  of  passionate  deprecation  and  appeal  answered 
this  solemn  assurance,  but  did  not  affect  her  decision.  He 
rose,  again  endeavored  to  grasp  and  detain  her  hand,  but 
she  broke  away  with  less  dignity  of  movement  than  usual ; 
and,  had  not  the  eyes  of  the  youth  been  blinded  by  his  own 
weaknesses,  he  might  have  seen  the  big  tear  in  hers,  which 
she  fled  precipitately  only  to  conceal. 


124  BF^UOHAMPE. 


CHAPTER   X. 

HOPE   DENIED. 

FROM  this  period  Miss  Cooke  studiously  withheld  her 
presence  from  the  eyes  of  her  infatuated  lover.  In  vain  did 
he  return  day  after  day  to  her  dwelling.  His  only  recep 
tion  was  accorded  )>y  the  mother,  whose  garrulity  was  con 
siderably  lessened  in  the  feeling  of  disappointment  which 
the  course  of  her  daughter  necessarily  inspired  in  her  mind. 
She  had  had  her  own  plans,  which,  as  she  knew  the  firm 
ness  of  her  daughter's  character,  she  could  not  but  be  con 
vinced  were  effectually  baffled.  To  her  Beauchampe  de 
clared  himself,  but  from  her  he  received  no  encouragement 
except  that  which  was  contained  in  her  own  consent,  which, 
as  he  had  already  discovered,  did  not  by  any  means  imply 
that  of  the  one  object  whose  consent'  was  everything.  The 
old  woman  pleaded  in  secret  the  passion  of  the  young  man, 
but  she  pleaded  fruitlessly.  Her  petition  became  modified 
into  one  soliciting  only  her  daughter's  consent  to  receive 
him  as  before  ;  and  to  induce  this  consent  the  more  readily 
Beauchampe  pledged  himself  not  to  renew  the  subject  ol 
love. 

But  Anna  Cooke  now  knew  the  value  of  such  pledges. 
She  also  knew,  by  this  time,  the  danger  to  herself  of  again 
meeting  with  one  whose  talents  and  worth  she  had  already 
learned  to  admire.  The  feeling  of  prudence  grew  stronger 
as  her  impressions  in  his  favor  were  increased.  This  con 


HOPE    DENTED.  125 

tradiction  of  character  is  not  of  common  occurrence.  But 
the  position  of  Anna  Cooke  was  not  only  painful  but  a 
peculiar  one.  To  suffei  her  affections  to  become  involved 
with  Beauchampe  was  oivly  to  increase  her  difficulties  and 
mortifications.  She  felt  that  it  would  be  dishonorable  to 
accept  him  as  a  husband  without  revealing  her  secret,  and 
that  revealed,  it  would  be  very  doubtful  whether  he  would 
be  so  willing  to  take  her  as  his  wife.  This  was  a  dilemma 
which  she  naturally  feared  to  encounter. 

We  do  not  say,  that  she  did  not  also  share  in  those  feel 
ings  of  disappointment  and  denial  under  which  Beauchampe 
so  greatly  suffered.  The  sadness  increased  upon  her  coun 
tenance,  and  softened  its  customary  severity.  She  felt  the 
darker  passions  of  her  mind  flickering  like  some  sinking 
candle-flame,  and  growing  daily  more  feeble  under  the  an 
tagonist  feeling  of  another  of  very  different  character. 
The  dream  of  hate  and  vengeance  which  for  five  years  had 
been,  however  baneful  to  her  heart,  a  source  of  strength 
to  her  frame,  grew  nightly  less  vivid,  and  less  powerful 
over  her  imagination ;  and,  hopeless  as  she  was  of  love, 
she  trembled  lest  the  other  passions  which,  however  strange 
ly,  had  yielded  her  solace  for  so  long  a  time,  should  abandon 
her  also. 

For  such  a  nature  as  that  of  Anna  Cooke,  some  strong 
food  was  necessary.  There  must  be  some  way  to  exercise 
and  employ  those  deep  desires  and  earnest  spiritings  of  her 
mind,  which  else  would  madden  and  destroy  her.  It  be 
came  necessary  to  recall  her  hates,  to  renew  her  vows  and 
prayers  of  vengeance,  to  concentrate  her  thoughts  anew 
on  the  bloody  sacrifice  which  she  had  so  long  meditated  in 
secret. 

But  this  was  no  easy  task.  The  image  of  Beauchampe 
came  between  her  eyes  and  that  of  the  one  victim  whose 
destruction  alone  she  sought.  The  noble,  generous,  do- 
voted  countenance  of  the  one,  half  obliterated  the  wily, 
treacherous  visage  of  the  other.  The  perpetual  pleadings 


126  BEAUCHAMPE. 

of  the  mother  contributed  to  present  this  obstacle  to  her 
mind. 

To  escape  from  this  latter  annoyance,  and,  if  possible, 
evade  the  impression,  which,  in  softening  her  feelings,  had 
obliterated  some  of  her  hates,  she  renewed  a  practice 
which  she  had  for  some  time  neglected.  She  might  be 
seen  every  morning  stealing  from  the  cottage  and  taking 
her  way  to  the  cover  of  the  adjacent  forests.  Here,  hid 
den  from  all  eyes,  she  buried  herself  in  the  religious  soli 
tude.  What  feelings  filled  her  heart,  what  fancies  vexed 
her  mind,  what  striving  forms  of  love  and  hate,  conflicted 
in  her  fancy,  we  may  perhaps  conjecture  ;  but  there,  alone, 
save  with  the  images  of  her  thought,  she  wasted  the  vacant 
hours ;  drawing  her  soul's  strength  from  that  bitter  weed 
of  hate,  the  worst  moral  poison  which  the  immortal  sou) 
can  ever  cherish. 

With  Beauchampe  the  sorrow  was  not  less,  and  there 
was  less  to  strengthen  ;  but  that  little  was  not  of  so  dan 
gerous  a  quality.  He  felt  the  pang  of  denial,  but  the  bit 
terness  of  hate  had  never  yet  blighted  the  young,  green 
leaves  of  his  youthful  affections.  He  was  unhappy,  but 
not  desperate.  Still  he  could  not  but  see,  in  the  course 
taken  by  Anna  Cooke,  a  character  of  strength  and  inflex 
ibility,  which  rendered  all  prospects  of  future  success, 
which  looked  to  her,  extremely  doubtful.  There  had  been 
no  relaxing  in  her  rigor.  The  mother,  whose  own  sym 
pathy  with  his  cause  was  sufficiently  obvious,  had  shown 
its  hopelessness,  even  when  she  most  encouraged  him  to 
persevere.  Perseverance  had  taught  him  the  rest  of  a  hard 
lesson  —  and  the  young  lover,  in  his  first  love,  now  trembled 
to  find  himself  alone  ! 

Alone  !  and  such  a  loneliness.  The  affections  of  mother 
and  sisters  no  longer  offered  solace  or  companionship  to  his 
heart.  They  no  longer  spoke  to  his  affections.  Their 
words  fell  upon  his  cars  only  to  startle  and  annoy ;  their 
gentle  smiles  were  only  so  inan^  gleams  of  cold,  mocking 


HOPE    DENIED.  127 

moonlight  scattered  along  the  dreary  seas  of  passion  in 
his  soul.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  live  after  this  fashion, 
for  he  had  still  a  hope  —  a  hope  just  sufficiently  large  to 
keep  him  doubtful.  Anna  Cooke  had  declared  that  her 
scruples  were  not  to  him.  The  bar  which  severed  her  from 
him  was  that  which  severed  her  from  man.  But  for  that  — 
such  was  her  own  assurance  — "  he  should  be  preferred  to 
all  others  whom  she  knew." 

That  bar  !  What  was  it  ?  Beauchampe  was  not  suffi 
ciently  experienced  in  the  history  of  the  passions,  to  con 
jecture  what  that  obstacle  might  be.  He  fancied,  at  the 
utmost,  that  her  affections  might  have  been  slighted  ;  he 
knew  —  but  chiefly  from  books  which  are  not  always  cor 
rect  in  such  matters  —  that  women  did  not  usually  forgive 
such  an  offence.  Betrothed,  she  might  have  been  deserted 
— perhaps  with  insult — and  this,  he  readily  thought,  might 
amply  justify  the  fierce  spirit  of  vengeance  which  she 
breathed.  Or,  it  might  be  that  she  had  been  born  to  for 
tune,  and  had  been  wronged  and  robbed,  by  some  wily  vil 
lain,  of  her  possessions.  Something  of  this  he  fancied  he 
had  gathered  from  the  garrulous  details  of  the  mother. 

But,  even  were  these  conjectures  true,  still  there  was 
nothing  in  them  to  establish  such  a  barrier  as  Anna  Cooko 
insisted  on,  between  his  passion  and  herself.  Blinded  as 
he  was  by  his  preference,  and,  in  his  own  simple  innocence 
of  heart,  overlooking  the  only  reasonable  mode  by  which 
such  a  mystery  could  be  solved,  the  truly  wretched  youth 
became  hourly  more  so.  Failing  to  find  his  way  to  her 
presence,  he  resorted  to  that  process  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
which  the  Heloi'se  of  Pope  insists  was  designed  by  Heaven 
expressly  for  the  use  of  such  wretches  as  Beauchampe  and 
herself,  and  his  soul  poured  itself  forth  upon  his  sheet  with 
all  the  burning  effluence  of  the  most  untameable  affection. 
Page  after  page  grew  beneath  his  hands  —  every  line  a  keen 
arrow  from  the  bended  bow  of  passion,  and  shot  directly 
at  tne  heart.  To  borrow  the  phraseology  of  the  old  Span 


128  BKAUCHAMPE. 

ish  teachers  of  the  estilo  cnllo,  if  his  tears  wet  the  paper, 
the  heat  of  his  words  dried  it  as  soon.  Beauchampe  spoke 
from  his  soul  and  it  penetrated  to  hers.  But  though  she 
felt  and  suffered,  she  was  unmoved.  Her  reply  was  firm 
and  characteristic: — . 

"  Noble  young  man,  leave  me  and  be  happy.  Depart 
from  this  pla.ce  ;  seek  me,  see  me,  think  of  me,  no  more  ! 
Why  should  you  share  a  destiny  like  mine  ?  Obey  your 
own.  It  calls  you  elsewhere.  If  it  be  just  to  you,  yours 
will  be  lofty  and  honorable ;  if  not,  at  least  it  will  spare 
you  any  participation  in  one  so  dreary  as  is  mine.  Go,  I 
implore  you,  and  cease  to  endure  the  anguish  which  you  still 
inflict.  Go,  forget  me,  and  be  happy.  Yet,  if  not,  take 
with  you  as  the  saddest  consolation  I  can  give,  the  assu 
rance  that  you  leave  behind  you  a  greater  suffering  than 
you  bear  away.  If,  as  you  tell  me,  the  arrow  rankles  in 
your  heart,  believe  me  there  is  an  ever-burning  fire  which 
encircles  mine.  I  have  not  even  the  resource  of  the  scor 
pion,  not,  at  least,  until  my  l  desperate  fang'  has  done  its 
work  on  another  brain  than  my  own.  Then,  indeed,  the 
remedy  were  easy ;  at  all  events  where  life  depends  upon 
resolution,  one  can  count  its  allotted  minutes  in  the  articu 
lations  of  a  drowsy  pulse.  Once  more,  noble  young  man, 
I  thank  y*ou  ;  once  more  1  implore  you  to  depart.  I  will 
not  send  you  my  blessings  —  I  will  not  endanger  your 
safety  by  a  prayer  of  mine.  Yet,  I  could  pray  for  you, 
Beauchampe.  I  believe  you  worthy  of  the  blessings,  and 
perhaps  you  would  not  be  injured  by  the  prayer,  of  one  BO 
desolate  as  I  am  !" 

This  letter,  so  far  from  baffling  his  ardor,  was  calculated 
to  increase  it.  He  hurried  once  more  to  the  dwelling  of 
Mrs.  Cooke ;  but  only  to  meet  a  repulse. 

"  Tell  him,  I  can  not  and  will  not  see  him !"  was  the 
inflexible  reply ;  and  the  mother  was  not  insensible  to  the 


HOPE    DENIED.  129 

struggle  which  shook  the   majestic  soul  and  form  of  the 
speaker  in  uttering  these  few  words. 

In  a  paroxysm  of  passion,  most  like  frenzy,  Beauchampe 
darted  from  the  dwelling.  That  day  he  rambled  in  the 
woods,  scarcely  conscious  of  his  course,  quite  unconscious 
of  any  object.  The  next,  taking  his  gun  with  him  by  way 
of  apology,  he  passed  in  the  same  manner.  And  thus  for 
two  days  more. 

Somewhat  more  composed  by  this  time,  his  violent  mood 
gave  way  to  one  of  a  more  contemplative  character ;  but 
the  shadows  of  the  forest  were  even  more  congenial  to  the 
disconsolate  than  the  desperate.  They  afforded  him  the 
only  protection  and  companionship  which  he  sought  in  either 
of  his  moods.  Here  he  wandered,  giving  himself  up  to  the 
dreary  conviction  which  swells  every  young  man's  heart, 
when  first  loving,  he  seems  to  love  in  vain,  and  when  the 
sun  of  hope  seems  set  for  him  for  ever ;  and  henceforth, 
earth  was  little  more  than  a  place  of  tombs  —  the  solemn 
cypress,  and  the  Druid  mistletoe,  its  most  fitting  decora 
tions  ;  while,  under  each  of  its  deceptive  flowers,  care,  and 
pain,  and  agony,  lay  harbored  in  the  forms  of  gnat,  and 
wasp,  and  viper,  ready  to  dart  forth  upon  any  thoughtless 
hand  that  stoops  to  pluck  the  beauty  of  which  they  might 
fitly  be  held  the  bane. 

But,  it  was  not  Beauchampe's  destiny,  as  Anna  Cooke 
had  fancied,  to  escape  from  hers.  In  vain  had  she  striven 
to  save  him  from  it.  He  was  one  not  to  be  saved.  Mark 
the  event.  To  escape  him — perhaps  dreading  that  her 
strength  might  fail,  at  some  moment,  to  resist  his  praye. 
to  see  and  speak  with  her ;  and  tired  of  her  mother's  con 
stant  pleading  in  behalf  of  her  suitor — she  fled  from  the 
house,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  stole  away,  day  by  day,  to 
lonely  places,  dark,  gloomy,  and  tangled,  such  as  the 
wounded  deer  might  seek  out,  in  his  last  agonies,  in  which 
to  die  in  secret. 

We  have  seen  already  what  has  been  the  habit  of  Beau- 

6* 


130  BEAUCFIAMPE. 

champe  in  this  respect.  His  woodland  musings  had  not 
been  without  profit.  Assured  now  of  the  hopelessness  of 
his  pursuit  from  the  stern  and  undeviating  resolution  which 
the  lady  of  his  love  had  shown,  at  every  attempt  which  he 
made  to  overcome  her  determination,  he,  at  length,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  concluded  to  adopt  her  counsel,  and  to  fly  from  a 
scene  in  which  disappointment  had  humbled  him,  and  where 
all  of  his  most  acute  feelings  were  kept  in  a  state  of  most 
painful  irritation.  But,  before  this,  he  again  addressed  her 
by  letter.  His  words  were  brief:  — 

"  I  shall  soon  leave  this  place.  I  shall  obey  you.  Yet. 
let  me  see  you  once  more.  Vouchsafe  me  one  look  upoc 
which  my  heart  may  brood  in  its  banishment.  Let  me  see 
that  dear  image  —  let  me  hear  that  voice  —  that  voice  of 
such  sweet  sorrow.  Do  not  deny  me  this  prayer.  Do  not ; 
for  in  leaving  you,  dearest,  but  most  relentless  woman,  1 
would  not  carry  with  me  at  the  last  moment,  to  disturb  the 
holier  impression  which  you  have  made  upon  my  soul,  a 
feeling  of  the  injustice  of  yours.  With  a  heart  hopeless 
and  in  the  dust,  I  implore  you.  Do  not  reject  my  prayer. 
Do  not  deny  me  —  let  me  once  more  behold  you,  and  I  will 
be  then  better  prepared  to  rush  away  to  the  crowded  haunts 
of  life,  or  it  may  be  the  more  crowded  haunts  of  death. 
Life  and  death !  all !  how  naturally  the  words  come  to 
gether.  You  have  rendered  their  signification  little  in  my 
ears.  You,  you  only.  Yet  I  ask  you  not  now  to  reverse 
the  doom.  Is  not  my  prayer  sufficiently  humble  !  I  ask 
you  not  to  spare,  not  to  save  ;  only  to  soothe  the  pangs  of 
that  departure  which  you  command,  and  which  seems  little 
less  than  death  to  me.  On  my  knees,  I  implore  you.  Let 
me  see  you  but  once  —  once  more  —  let  me  once  more  hear 
your  voice,  though  I  hear  nothing  after." 

To  this,  the  answer  was  immediate,  but  the  determina 
tion  was  unchanged.  It  said  :  — 


HOPE    DENIED.  131 

"  I  may  seem  cruel,  but  T  am  kind  to  you.  Oh  !  beliew 
rne.  It  will  console  me  under  greater  suffering  than  an? 
I  can  inflict,  to  think  that  you  do  believe  me.  I  am  a 
woman  of  wo  —  born  to  it  —  with  no  escape  from  my  des 
tiny.  The  sense  of  happiness,  nevertheless,  is  very  strong' 
within  me.  Were  it  not  impossible  that  I  could  do  you 
wrong,  I  could  appreciate  the  generous  love  you  profle/ 
me.  I  feel  that  I  could  do  it  justice.  But  terror  and  death 
attend  my  steps,  and  influence  the  fortunes  of  all  who  share 
in  mine.  I  would  save  you  from  these,  and  —  worse!  You 
need  not  to  be  told  that  there  are  worse  foes  to  the  proud 
fond  heart,. than  either  death  or  terror.  Fancy  what  thcst 
may  be,  and  fly  from  me  as  from  one  whose  touch  is  conta 
gion —  whose  breath  is  bondage — whose  conditions  of  com 
munion  are  pangs,  and  trials,  and  —  shame  !  Do  not  think 
I  speak  wildly.  No,  Beauchampe,  you  little  dream  with 
what  painful  inflexibility  I  bend  myself  to  the  task  of  say 
ing  thus  much.  Spare  me  and  yourself  any  further  utter 
ance.  Go,  and  be  happy.  You  are  yet  young,  very  young. 
Perhaps  you  know  not  that  I  am  older  than  you.  Not 
"nuch  —  yet  how  much.  Oh!  I  have  so  crowded  moments 
with  events  —  feelings,  the  events  of  the  heart — that  I  am 
grown  suddenly  old.  Old  in  youth.  I  am  like  the  tree 
you  sometimes  meet — flourishing,  green  at  the  top  —  while 
in  the  heart  sits  death  and  decay,  and,  perhaps,  gloomier 
tenants  beside.  These  I  can  not  escape  —  I  can  not  survive. 
But  you  have  only  one  struggle  before  you.  You  have  suf 
fered  one  disappointment.  It  will  disturb  you  for  a  while, 
but  not  distress  you  long.  You  will  find  love  where  you 
do  not  seek  it  —  happiness,  which  you  could  never  find  with 
me.  Go,  Beauchampe  —  for  your  sake,  I  deny  your  prayer. 
I  will  not  see  you.  Do  not  upbraid  me  in  your  soul,  nor  by 
your  lips.  Alas  !  you  know  not  how  hard  is  the  struggle, 
which  1  have,  to  say  so  much.  You  know  not  from  what  a 
bondage  this  struggle  saves  you.  My  words  shall  not  call 
you  back.  No  looks  of  mine  shall  beguile  you.  Be  you 


132  BKAUCHAMPE. 

free,  Beauchampe  —  free  and  happy  !  If  you  could  but  guess 
the  temptation  which  I  overcome  —  the  vital  uses  which 
your  love  could  be  to  me,  and  which  I  reject,  you  would 
thank  me  —  oh  !  how  fervently  —  and  bless  me  —  would  1 
could  say,  how  justly  !  Farewell !  Let  it  be  for  erer 
Beauchampe!  Farewell!  farewell  for  ever  !" 


THE   TERRIBLE   SECRET.  138 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   TERRIBLE   SECRET. 

BEAUCHAMPE  sat,  sad  and  silent,  in  a  corner  of  one  low 
cnamber  in  his  mother's  cottage.  The  family  were  all 
present.  There  was  an  expression  in  every  face  that  sym 
pathized  with  his  own.  All  were  sad  and  gloomy.  A 
painful  reserve,  so  strange  hitherto  in  that  little  family  of 
love,  oppressed  the  spirits  of  all.  They  were  aware  of  the 
little  success  which  followed  his  course  of  wooing.  They, 
perhaps,  did  not  regret  the  loss  so  much  as  the  disappoint 
ment  of  one  whom  they  so  much  loved.  With  the  excep 
tion  of  little  Mary  Bcauchampe,  Anna  Cooke  had  not 
taken  captive  the  fancy  of  either  of  the  ladies.  Jane  posi 
tively  feared  and  disliked  her,  with  the  natural  hostility 
which  a  person  of  light  mind  always  entertains  for  one  of 
intensity  and  character.  Mrs.  Beauchampe's  objections 
were  of  another  kind  ;  but  she  had  seen  too  little  of  their 
object,  and  was  too  willing  to  promote  her  son's  wishes,  to 
attach  much  importance  to  them.  She  had  derived  them 
rather  from  the  casual  criticisms  of  persons  en  passant,, 
than  from  anything  which  she  herself  had  seen. 

It  would  have  been  no  hard  matter  for  Bcauchampe,  had 
he  been  successful  in  his  suit,  to  reconcile  all  the  parties 
to  his  marriage.  That  he  was  unhappy  in  the  rejection  of 
his  hand,  made  them  so;  and  the  feeling  was  the  more 
painful  as  the  event  had  made  Beauchampe  determine  to 


BEAUCHAMPB. 

depart  on  the  ensuing  day.  He  felt  the  necessity  of  doing 
so.  Active  life,  the  strifes  of  the  politician,  the  triumphs 
of  the  forum,  were  at  hand,  offering  him  alternatives,  if  not 
atonements.  In  the  whirl  of  successive  performance,  and 
in  scenes  that  demand  promptitude  of  action,  he  felt  that  he 
could  alone  dissipate  the  spell,  or  at  least  endure  its 
weight  with  dignity,  which  the  charms  of  Anna  Cooke 
had  imposed  upon  him.  His  resolution  was  declared  ac 
cordingly. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  the  distress  of  the  little  family 
made  the  scene  dull.  Much  was  said,  and  much  of  it  was 
in  the  language  of  complaint.  Poor  Mary  wept  with  a 
keen  sense  of  disappointment,  more  like  that  of  her  brother 
than  any  one.  Jane  muttered  her  upbraidings  of  the 
"  scornful,  high-headed,  frowsy  Indian  Queen,  who  was  too 
conceited  to  see  that  Orville  was  ten  thousand  times  too 
good  a  match  for  such  as  she  ;" — while  Mrs.  Beauchampe, 
with  the  usual  afflicting  philosophy  of  age  which  has  sur 
vived  passion,  discoursed  largely  on  the  very  encouraging 
text  which  counsels  us  to  draw  our  consolation  from  our 
very  hopelessness.  Pretty  counsel,  with  a  vengeance ! 
Beauchampe  thought  it  so. 

The  torturous  process  to  which  these  occasional  remarks 
and  venerable  counsels  subjected  him,  drove  him  forth  at  an 
early  hour  after  dinner.  Once  more  he  traversed  the  woods 
in  moody  meditation.  lie  inly  resolved  that  he  should  see 
them  the  last  time.  With  this  resolve  he  determined  to 
pay  a  personal  visit  to  the  spot  where,  at  his  coming,  he 
had  obtained  the  first  sight  of  the  woman,  who,  from  that 
moment,  had  filled  his  sight  entirely.  He  followed  the 
sinuous  course  of  the  woods,  slowly,  moodily,  chewing  the 
cud  of  sad  and  bitter  thought  alone. 

His  passion  was  in  its  subdued  phase.  There  is  a  mo 
ment  of  recoil  in  the  excited  heart,  when  the  feelings  long 
for  repose.  There  is  a  sense  of  exhaustion  —  a  dread  of 
further  strife  and  excitement,  the  very  thought  of  wbicb 


THE   TERRIBLE   SECRET.  Io5 

makes  us  shudder ;  and  the  one  conviction  over  all  which 
fills  the  mind,  is  that  we  could  willingly  lay  ourselves  down 
in  the  shady  places,  none  near,  and  sleep  —  sleep  the 
long  sleep,  in  which  there  are  no  such  tortures  and  tu 
mults. 

Such  were  the  feelings  of  Beauchampe,  and  thus  languid, 
from  this  recoil,  in  the  overcharged  sensibilities,  he  went 
slowly  forward,  with  a  movement  that  denoted  quite  as 
much  feebleness  as  grief. 

He  was  already  buried  in  the  thick  woods — he  fancied 
himself  alone  —  when,  suddenly,  he  heard  a  pistol-shot. 
He  started,  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  a  like  sound, 
which  had  attracted  his  ears  on  his  first  approach  to  the 
same  neighborhood.  The  coincidence  was  at  least  a  strange 
one. 

He  now  determined  to  find  out  the  practitioner.  He 
paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  about  him.  He  was 
not  exactly  sure  of  the  quarter  whence  the  sound  proceed 
ed  ;  but  he  moved  forward  cautiously,  and  at  a  venture. 
Suddenly  he  paused !  He  discovered,  at  a  distance,  the 
person  of  the  very  woman  whom  he  had  been  so  long  seek 
ing —  she  whose  obduracy  denied  him  even  the  boon  of  a 
last  look  and  farewell  accent. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  rush  forward.  A  second  and 
different  impulse  was  forced  on  him  by  what  he  saw.  To 
his  astonished  eyes  she  bore  in  her  hands  a  pistol.  He 
watched  her  while  she  loaded  it.  He  saw  her  level  it  at  a 
tree,  and  pull  the  trigger  with  unhesitating  hand.  The 
"bark  flew  on  every  side,  betraying,  by  the  truth  of  her 
aim,  at  a  considerable  distance,  the  constancy  of  her  prac 
tice. 

Beauchampe  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  now 
rushed  forward.  A  faint  cry  escaped  her  as  she  beheld 
him  She  dropped  the  pistol  by  her  side,  clasped  and  cov 
ered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  staggered  back  a  few 
paces. 


136  BEAUCHAMPE. 

But,  before  Beauchampe  reached  her,  she  had  recovered, 
and,  picking  up  the  pistol,  she  came  forward.  Her  eye 
sparkled  with  an  expression  which  showed  something  like 
resentment.  Her  voice  was  abrupt  and  sharp. 

"  You  rush  on  your  fate  !"  she  exclaimed.  u  Why, 
Beauchampe,  do  you  thus  pursue  me,  and  risk  your  own 
destruction  ?" 

"  At  your  hand,  it  is  welcome !"  he  exclaimed,  mistaking 
her  meaning. 

"  I  mean  not  that  ,r'  she  replied. 

"But  you  inflict  UP 

"No!  no!"  impatiently.  "I  do  not.  I  have  prayed 
against  it  —  would  spare  you  that  and  every  risk  ;  but  you 
will  it  otherwise !  You  rush  on  your  late  ;  and  if  you 
dare,  Beauchampe  —  mark  me  !  if  you  dare  —  il  is  at  your 
option.  Heretofore,  I  have  striven  for  you,  and  against 
myself;  but  you  have  forced  yourself  upon  my  privacy  — 
you  have  sought  to  fathom  my  secrets — and  it  is  now 
necessary  that  you  should  bear  the  penalty  of  forbidden 
knowledge !" 

"  Have  1  not  supplicated  you  for  these  penalties  ?  Ah ! 
what  pain — inflicted  by  your  hand — would  not  be  pleas 
ure  !" 

"You  love  me! — I  believe  you,  Beauchampe;  but  the 
secret  of  rny  soul  is  the  deaih-blow  to  your  love !  Ah ! 
spare  me  !  —  even  now  I  would  have  you  spare  me.  Go  — 
leave  me  for  ever ;  press  no  farther  into  a  mystery  which 
must  shock  you  to  hear,  shame  me  to  speak,  and  leads  — 
if  it  drives  you  nut  hence  with  the  speed  of  terror — leads 
you  to  sorrow  and  ccrtaiu  strife,  and  possibly  the  crudest 
doom." 

"  Speak  !  I  brave  all !  I  am  your  bondsman,  your  slave. 
Declare  the  service :  let  -me  break  down  these  barriers 
which  divide  us." 

He  caught  her  hand  passionately  in  his  as  lie  spoke,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips.  She  did  not  withdraw  it. 


THE   TERRIBLE   SECRET.  13i 

"  Beauchampe !"  she  said,  with  solemnity,  fixing  her 
dark,  deep-glancing  eyes  upon  his  face  —  "Beauchampe! 
I  will  not  swear  you !  You  shall  hear  the  truth,  and 
still  be  free.  Know,  then,  that  you  clasp  a  dishonored 
hand!" 


18H  BEAUCBAMPE. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE   VOW   OF   VENGEANCE. 

THE  terrible  words  were  spoken.  The  effect  was  in 
stantaneous.  He  dropped  the  hand  which  he  had  grasped. 
A  burning  flush  crimsoned  the  face  of  the  woman ;  an  in 
stant  after,  it  was  succeeded  by  the  paleness  of  death. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  exclaimed,  bitterly,  and  with  cruel 
keenness  of  utterance.  "  I  knew  that  it  would  come  to 
this.  God !  this  is  thy  creature  man !  In  his  selfishness 
he  destroys  —  in  his  selfishness  he  shames  us.  He  pries 
into  our  hearts,  to  declare  their  weakness  —  to  point  out 
their  spots — to  say,  *  See  how  I  can  triumph  over,  and 
trample  upon !' ' 

"Anna!"  exclaimed  Beauchampe,  in  husky  accents — 
"  speak  not  thus  —  think  not  thus.  Give  me  but  a  moment's 
time  for  thought.  I  was  not  prepared  for  this." 

The  young  man  looked  like  one  in  a  dream.  A  ghastly 
expression  marked  his  eyes.  His  lips  were  parted ;  the 
muscles  of  his  mouth  were  convulsed. 

"  Nay,  sir,  it  needs  not.  Your  curiosity  is  satisfied. 
There  is  nothing  more.'* 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  "  there  is !" 

"  There  is !"  she  answered  promptly.  "  To  clasp  the 
dishonored  hand,  and  take  from  its  grasp  the  instrument 
of  its  vengeance.  In  a  few  words,  Beauchampe,  this  hand 
can  only  be  yours  under  one  condition.  Dishonored  though 


THE   VOW   OF   VENGEANCE.  139 

it  is,  I  teli  you,  sir,  never  yet  did  woman  subject  man  to 
more  terrible  conditions  as  the  price  of  her  love." 

"  I  take  the  hand,"  he  said,  "  ere  the  condition  is  spoken." 

"  No,  Beauchampe,  that  can  not  be.  You  shall  never 
say  that  I  deceived  you.  As  I  shall  insist  on  the  fulfilment 
of  the  condition,  so  it  is  but  fair  that  you  be  not  hooded 
when  you  pledge  yourself  to  its  performance." 

She  withdrew  the  hand,  which  he  offered  to  take,  from 
his  contact. 

"  This  dishonored  hand  is  pledged  to  vengeance  on  him 
who  blackened  it  with  shame.  Hence  its  practice  with  the 
weapon  of  death.  Hence  the  almost  daily  practice  of  the 
last  five  years.  Here,  in  these  woods,  I  pursue  a  sort  of 
devotion,  where  Hate  is  the  deity  —  Vengeance  the  officia 
ting  priest.  I  have  consecrated  my  life  to  this  one  object. 
He  who  takes  my  hand  must  adopt  my  pledge  —  must  de 
vote  himself  also  to  the  work  of  vengeance !" 

He  seized  it,  and  took  the  weapon  from  its  grasp.  With 
the  pistol  lifted  to  heaven,  he  exclaimed : — 

"  The  oath  !  — I  am  ready  !" 

Tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  She  spoke  in  subdued  ac 
cents  : — 

"  Five  long  years  have  I  toiled  with  this  delusive  dream 
of  vengeance  !  But  what  can  woman  do  ?  Where  can  she 
seek  —  ho\v  find  her  victim?  Think  you,  Orville  Beau 
champe,  that  if  I  could  have  met  my  enemy,  I  would  have 
challenged  the  aid  of  man  to  do  this  work  of  retribution  ? 
In  my  own  soul  was  the  strength.  There  is  no  feminine 
feebleness  of  nerve  in  this  eye  and  arm !  I  should  have 
shot  and  struck  —  ah  !  Christ !" 

She  sunk  to  the  ground  with  a  spasm,  which  was  the  nat 
ural  effect  of  such  passions  working  on  such  a  temperament. 
The  desperate  youth  knelt  down  beside  her  in  an  agony  of 
equal  passion  and  apprehension.  He  drew  her  to  his  breast, 
he  glued  his  lips  to  her  cheeks,  scarcely  conscious  that  she 
was  lifeless  all  the  while. 


140  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Her  swoon,  however,  was  momentary  only.  She  recov 
cred  even  while  he  was  playing  the  madman  in  his  fond 
ness. 

Refusing  his  assistance,  and  pushing  him  from  her,  she 
staggered  up,  exclaimed,  in  piercing,  trembling  accents: — 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  what  have  I  said  ?" 

"  Given  me  happiness,  dearest,"  he  replied,  attempting 
to  take  her  hand. 

"No,  Beauchampe,"  she  answered,  "let  me  understand 
myself  before  I  seek  to  understand  you.  I  am  scarcely 
able,  though!"  —  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  pressed  her  hands 
upon  her  eyes  with  an  expression  of  pain. 

"  You  are  still  sick  !"  he  observed  apprehensively. 

"  I  am  in  pain,  Beauchampc,  not  sick.  I  am  used  to 
these  spasms.  Do  not  let  them  alarm  you.  They  are  not 
deadly,  and,  if  they  were,  I  should  not  consider  them  dan 
gerous.  I  know  not  well  what  I  have  said  to  you,  Beau- 
champe,  before  this  pain  ;  but  as  I  never  have  these  attacks 
unless  the  agony  of  mind  becomes  too  intense  for  one  to 
bear  and  live,  I  conclude  that  I  have  told  you  all.  You 
know  my  secret — my  shame!" 

"  I  know  that  you  are  the  noblest-hearted  woman  that 
ever  lived !"  he  exclaimed  rapturously. 

"  Do  not  mock  me,  Beauchampe,"  she  answered  mildly. 
"  Speak  not  in  language  of  such  extravagance.  You  can 
not  speak  too  soberly  for  my  ears,  you  can  not  think  too 
soberly  for  your  own  good.  You  have  heard  my  secret. 
You  have  forced  me  to  declare  my  shame !  You  had  no 
right  to  this  secret.  Was  it  not  enough  that  I  told  you 
that  the  barrier  was  impassable  between  us  ?  Did  I  not 
swear  it  solemnly  ?" 

"  It  is  not  impassable." 

"  It  is !" 

"  No !"  he  exclaimed  with  looks  and  accents  equally  de 
cisive,  "  this  is  no  barrier.  You  have  been  wronged  — 
your  confidence  has  been  abused.  That  I  understand.  J 


THE    VOW    OF   VENGEANCE.  141 

care  not  to  know  more.  I  believe  you  to  be  all  that  is 
pure  and  honorable  now  ;  and,  in  this  faith,  I  am  all  yours. 
In  this  faith  I  pray  you  to  be  mine." 

•  "  Becauchampe,  this  is  not  all !  Mere  love,  though  it  be 
such  as  yours  —  simple  faith,  though  so  generous  a^d  con 
fiding —  these  do  not  suffice.  The  food  is  sweet,  but  it  has 
little  nutriment.  My  soul  is  already  familiar  with  higher 
stimulants.  It  needs  them  —  it  can  not  do  without  thuin. 
[  do  not  ask  the  man  who  makes  me  his  wife,  to  believe 
only  that  I  can  be  true  to  him  —  and  will! — I  demand 
something  more  than  a  confidence  like  this,  Beauchampe : 
my  husband  must  avenge  my  dishonor.  This  is  the  condi 
tion  of  my  hand.  Dishonored  as  it  is,  it  has  a  heavy  price, 
fie  must  devote  his  life  to  the  work  of  retribution.  To 
this  he  must  swear  himself." 

"  I  am  already  sworn  to  it.  The  moment  which  revealed 
your  wrong,  bound  me  as  your  avenger.  You  shall  only 
point  to  your  enemy — " 

"  Ah,  Beaucliampc,  could  I  have  done  so,  I  should  not 
have  needed  to  stain  your  hands  with  his  blood.  But  he 
eludes  my  sight.  I  hear  nowhere-  of  him.  He  is  as  if  he 
nad  never  been. 

"  His  name  !"  said  Beauchampe- 

"  You  shall  know  all,"  she  replied,  motioning  him  to  a 
seat  beside  her  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  "You  shall 
know  all,  Beauchampe,  from  first  to  last.  It  is  due  to  you 
that  nothing  should  be  withheld." 

"  Spare  yourself,  dearest,"  said  Beauchampe  tenderly. 
u  Tell  me  nothing,  I  implore  you,  but  the  name  of  your 
enemy,  and  what  may  be  necessary  for  the  work  of  ven 
geance." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all.  It  is  my  pride  that  I  should  not 
spare  myself.  It  is  due  to  my  present  self,  to  show  that  I 
am  not  blind  to  the  weaknesses  of  my  former  nature.  It 
is  due  to  what  I  am,  to  convince  you  that  I  can  never  agair 
be  what  I  have  been.  0  Beauchampe !  I  have  meditated 


142  BEAUCHAMPE. 

often  and  sadly,  since  I  have  known  you,  the  necessity  of 
making  this  revelation.  At  our  first  meeting,  my  heart 
said  to  myself,  *  The  love  by  which  I  was  betrayed  has  at 
length  sent  me  an  avenger !'  I  saw  it  in  your  instant 
glances — in  the  generous  earnestness  of  your  looks  and 
tones  —  in  the  fervent  expression  of  your  eye  —  in  the 
frank,  impetuous  nature  of  your  soul !  But  I  said  to  my 
self:— 

"  '  I  will  deny  myself  this  avenger.  I  will  reject  the  in 
stinct  that  tells  me  he  is  sent  as  one.  Why  should  I  involve 
this  noble  young  man  in  a  fate  so  desperate  and  sad  as 
mine  ?  It  shall  not  be !'  "With  this  resolve,  I  strove  against 
you.  Nay,  Beauchampe,  I  confess  to  you  farther,  that, 
even  when  my  will  strove  most  against  you,  my  heart  was 
most  earnest  in  your  favor.  With  my  increasing  regard 
for  you,  grew  my  reluctance  to  involve  you  in  my  doom. 
The  conflict  was  close  and  trying ;  and  then,  when  the  strife 
in  my  mind  was  greatest,  I  meditated  what  I  should  reveal 
to  you.  I  went  over  that  long  and  cruel  memory  in  the 
deep  silence  of  these  woods — in  the  deeper  silence  of  mid 
night  in  my  chamber :  I  could  not  escape  from  the  stern 
necessity  which  compelled  the  remembrance  of  those  mo 
ments  of  bitterness  and  shame.  By  frequent  recall,  they 
have  been  revived  in  all  their  burning  freshness  ;  every 
art  of  the  traitor — the  blind  steps  by  which  I  fell  —  the 
miserable  mockeries  which  deluded  me  —  and  the  shame 
which,  like  a  lurid  cloud,  dusk  and  fiery,  has  ever  since 
hung  before  my  eyes!  All  this  I  can  relate  —  his  crime 
and  my  folly  —  nor  omit  one  fraction  which  is  necessary  to 
the  truth." 

"But  why  tell  all  this,  dearest?  Let  it  be  forgotten  — 
let  all  be  forgotten,  except  the  name  of  the  villain  whom  it 
is  allotted  me  to  destroy." 

"  Forgotten  ?  It  can  not  be  forgotten  !  Nay,  more,  it  is 
a  duty  to  remember  it,  that  the  vengeance  may  not  sleep. 
Beauchampe,  I  have  lived  for  years  on  this  one  thought. 


THE    VOW   OP   VENGEANCE.  143 

Sy  recalling  these  bitter  memories,  that  thought  was  fed. 
Do  not  persuade  me  to  forget  them.  You  know  not  how 
much  of  life  depends  on  the  sustenance  which  thought  de 
rives  from  this  copious  but  polluted  fountain.  Deprive  me 
of  this  sustenance,  and  I  perish.  Deny  me  to  declare  all, 
and  I  can  speak  nothing.  I  can  not  curb  my  nature  when 
I  will ;  and  where  would  you  gather  the  fuel  of  anger, 
should  I  barely  say  to  you  that  one  Alfred  Stevens  —  an 
artful  stranger  from  a  distant  city  —  found  me  a  simple, 
vain  child  among  the  hills,  and,  practising  on  my  vanity, 
overcame  my  strength  ?  This  would  serve  but  little  in 
rousing  that  fierce  fire  of  hate  within  you  which  sometimes, 
even  in  my  own  bosom,  burns  quite  too  faintly  to  be  effect 
ual.  No,  no !  you  shall  witness  the  progress  of  the  crimi 
nal.  You  shall  see  how  he  spun  his  web  around  my  path 
— my  soul! — by  what  mousing  cunning  he  contrived  to 
pull  down  a  wing  whose  feeblest  fancy,  in  those  unconscious 
days,  was  above  the  mountains,  and  striving  ever  for  the 
clouds.  You  shall  see  the  daily  records  of  its  spasms, 
which  my  misery  has  made.  To  feel  my  struggle,  you  must 
share  in  it  from  the  first." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"  You  will  feel  my  hand  tremble,"  said  she  ;  "  the  flush 
may  suffuse  my  cheek ;  for,  oh !  do  not  suppose  I  tell  this 
tale  willingly.  No  !  I  can  not  help  but  tell  it.  An  instinct, 
which  I  dare  not  disobey,  commands  me ;  and  truly,  when 
I  think  of  the  instinct  which  told  me  that  you  would  come 
—  made  you  known  to  me  as  the  avenger  from  the  first  mo 
ment  when  I  saw  you  —  and  has  thus  forced  you,  as  it  were, 
»n  my  own  despite,  upon  my  fearful  secret  —  I  almost  feel 
ihat  there  is  a  divine,  at  least  a  fated  compulsion,  in  tho 
mood  which  now  prompts  me  to  tell  you  all.  It  is  a  neces 
sity.  I  feel  it  pressing  upon  me  as  a  duty.  It  is  like  that 
Fate  which  coerced  the  ancient  mariner  into  the  report  of 
nis  marvellous  progress,  and  compelled  the  listener  to  hear. 
It  must  be  told  ;  and  you,  Beauchampe,  can  not  help  but 


144  BEAUCHAMPE. 

hear.  ,  A  power  beyond  mine  own  has  willed  it,  and  there 
fore  you  are  here  now.  It  chains  us  both.  It  wills  that  I 
should  speak,  and  speak  nothing  but  the  truth.  I  can  even 
suppress  nothing.  I  am  not  able  to  control  my  own  utter 
ance.  May  the  same  power  endue  me  with  the  strength  to 
speak  the  history  of  my  bitter,  bitter  shame !" 

And,  in  truth,  Bcauchampe,  like  herself,  was  under  a 
spell.  He  could  not  have  torn  himself  away  under  any 
conditions,  or  with  any  impulse.  He  was  fastened  to  the 
spot  —  not  by  her  arts,  for  she  sternly  rejected  any  help  of 
art,  save  that  which  naturally  belonged  to  her  own  remark 
able  genius  —  not  by  the  charms  of  her  beauty,  for  her  face 
now  had  more  of  terror  in  it  than  beauty  —  not  by  any  sym 
pathy  which  might  arise  from  pity,  for,  as  he  looked  into 
the  sombre  grandeur  of  her  eyes,  and  the  stern  power  of 
soul,  and  will,  and  mind,  which  declared  itself  in  every 
feature  of  her  countenance,  in  every  action  of  her  form,  ho 
felt  that  awe,  not  pity,  was  the  most  natural  sentiment 
which  she  inspired. 

Under  the  spell  he  sat  beside  her.  Under  a  like  spell  — 
the  imagination,  in  both,  being  the  Prospero,  the  master 
of  the  magic  wand  —  she  spoke.  And  how — the  first  cho 
king  effort  at  utterance  being  overcome  —  how  clearly,  sim 
ply,  sternly,  she  laid  bare  the  whole  cruel  history,  even  as 
we  have  already  told  it — nothing  suppressed,  nothing  ob 
scured  ;  no  idle  apologies  for  weakness  offered  —  no  excuses 
urged  in  behalf  of  sinful  impulses.  She  spared  herself  in 
nothing.  She  laid  herself  I  are  to  discovery,  to  keen  analy 
sis,  to  the  most  critical  inspection.  Governed,  as  she  felt 
or  fancied,  by  some  supernatural  influence,  there  was  a  ter 
rible  earnestness,  an  unequivocal  intenseness  and  directness, 
in  all  she  revealed,  that  would  have  left  the  most  captious 
attorney  at  a  loss  for  the  opportunity  to  cross-examine. 
There  was  no  attempt  at  glozing  artifice,  at  adroit  insinua 
tion  or  suggestion,  by  which  to  soften  the  darker  colors — 
to  relieve  the  doubtful  —  to  conceal  what  had  been  her  real 


THE    VOW   OP    VENGEANCE  Hr 

errors,  weaknesses,  and  vicious  desires.  All  the  character 
istics  of  her  soul — its  follies,  faults,  foibles,  vices  —  were 
all  made  apparent :  but  through  all,  equally  apparent,  was 
the  proud  spirit,  falling  chiefly  through  pride,  the  noble 
nature,  the  ingenuous  ambition,  the  lustrous  and  winged 
genius ! 


14*-  BEAUCHAMP* 


CHAPTE  R   XIII. 

THE   BETROTHAL. 

"  I  drink  of  the  intoxicating  cup, 
.  And  find  it  rapture.     Yet,  methinks  I  feel 
As  if  a  madness  mingled  with  the  sweet, 
And  dashed  it  with  a  bitter." 

WHAT  a  hush  for  a  moment  hung  over  the  forest  when 
she  ceased  to  speak ! 

The  story  was  ended. 

For  a  few  moments,  Beauchampe  sat  immoveable,  as  if 
slowly  recovering  from  a  spell.  Then  suddenly  he  shook 
himself  free,  started  up  with  a  cry  of  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
and  clasped  her  in  his  wild  embrace. 

His  passion  had  undergone  increase.  He  vras  no  longer 
master  of  his  pulses.  Her  superior  will  had  already  made 
itself  felt  in  all  the  sinews  of  his  soul.  Every  beat  and 
bound  of  his  heart  was  full  of  the  exquisite  fascination. 

She  extricated  herself  from  his  grasp.  Her  breathing 
came  with  effort.  She  pressed  her  hand  upon  hex  side,  as 
if  with  a  sudden  sense  of  pain  ;  then  looked  up,  and  met 
his  eager  glance  with  eyes  which  were  so  fixed,  so  glassily 
Btern,  that  he  looked  alarmed,  and  clasped  her  hands  in 
his  own. 

She  was,  in  truth,  deadly  pale  —  but,  oh,  how  strong! 

"  Fear  nothing,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper  ;  "  it  is  nothing. 
I  shall  soon  be  well." 

And  a  brief  silence  ensued  between  them,  he  gazing  still 
with  apprehension  into  her  eyes. 


THE    BETROTHAL.  H7 

"  Look  not  thus,  Beauchampe.  I  am  better  now.  The 
pain  is  gone.  I  ara  used  to  it.  It  always  comes  with  any 
great  excitement,  and  this  to-day  has  been  a  terrible  one. 
I  feared  I  should  not  have  strength  for  it.  Thank  God,  it 
is  over  —  and  —  and — I  am  better  now." 

And  she  laughed  hysterically. 

Anna  Cooke  was  wonderfully  strong,  but  she  was  yet  a 
woman.  She  had  overtasked  herself.  She  sank,  a  mo 
ment  after,  in  a  fainting-fit,  upon  the  sward. 

Beauchampe  was  terrified.  He  called  her  name,  and  re 
ceived  no  answer.  He  ran  off  to  a  well-remembered  brook 
let,  some  two  hundred  yards  distant,  over  which  a  gourd 
was  suspended  from  a  tree.  lie  hurried  back  with  it  full 
of  water,  and  found  her  recovering.  She  drank  freely, 
bathed  her  face  and  forehead  in  the  liquid,  and  felt  re 
lieved. 

"  And  now,  Beauchampe  —  now  that  you  have  heard  all 

—  now  that  you  see  and  understand  the  full  nature  of  the 
conditions  imposed  upon  you — the  fearful  nature  of  the 
penalty  —  the  crime,  and  its  terrible  consequences — I  re 
lease  you  from  your  pledge!     Be  free!     Go  —  leave  me  ! 
1  would  not  have  your  young  and  generous  soul  burdened 
with  the  sting,  the  sin,  the  agony,  and  the  resolve,  of  mine  !" 

This  was  said,  how  mournfully,  but  with  what  sincerity ! 

—  with  that  utter  self-abaridoment  which  denotes  the  recoil 
and -the  subsidence  of  powerful  and  now-exhausted  energies  ! 

"  Oh !  how  can  you  speak  thus !"  he  answered  reproach 
fully.  "  I  would  not  be  released.  I  ask  not  even  respite. 
Your  cause  is  mine — your  wrongs !  I  feel  them  all !  Your 
vengeance  —  I  have  sworn  to  accomplish  it.  It  is  now  my 
passion  not  less  than  yours.  Nay,  more,  I  would  have  you 
dismiss  it  from  your  soul !  I  would  have  it  exclusively  my 
own !" 

"  And  you  are  still  willing,  burdened  with  this  poor 
wreck  of  youth,  and  virtue,  and  beauty  —  and  with  this  ter 
rible  necessity  —  to  undergo  the  consciousness  of  the  world's 


148  BEAUCHAMPE. 

mock  —  nay,  to  see  its  skinny  pointing  finger,  and  hear  its 
venomous  tongue,  as  it  mutters,  while  I  pass,  the  cruel 
story  of  my  shame  !" 

"  I  will  make  that  story  yet  a  memorial  of  virtuous  ven 
geance,  to  be  remembered  in  Kentucky  when  we  are  both 
in  the  dust !"  was  the  vehement  answer,  while  the  eyes  of 
the  speaker  flashed  fire,  and  his  hand  was  outwaved  as  if 
challenging  the  whole  world's  voice  and  ear.  He  con 
tinued  :  — 

"  If  that  story  is  to  be  told  again,  Margaret  Cooper — 
for  so,  this  once,  will  I  call  you — it  shall  sound  as  an  omi 
nous  voice  of  terror,  speaking  doom  and  sudden  judgment 
to  the  cold-blooded  profligates  who  pride  themselves  on  the 
serpent  conquest  over  all  that  is  blessing  and  beautiful  in 
the  world's  Eden !" 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  had  not  thus 
wept  before  —  never  once  had  such  tears  covered  her 
cheeks  even  in  the  moments  of  her  bitterest  remorse  and 
suffering. 

"  Do  not  weep!"  he  said  ;  "I  can  not  bear  to  see  you 
weep." 

"  It  is  for  the  last  time,"  she  answered,  almost  prophet 
ically. 

"  What,  indeed,  had  she  to  do  with  tears  ?  They  could 
not  speak  for  passions,  and  such  an  agony  as  hers.  Then, 
timidly,  he  laid  one  hand  upon  her  wrist,  while  the  other 
crept  about  her  waist.  And  she  shuddered.  He  felt  the 
convulsive  shiver,  and  withdrew  his  grasp.  He  whis 
pered  :  — 

"  You  are  now  to  be  mine — mine — you  remember  !" 

"  Alas !  for  you,  Beauchampe,  that  it  is  so.  It  is  not  too 
late !  You  are  still  free  to  go.  It  is  a  ruin — not  a  heart, 
that  I  can  give  you  !" 

"  Be  it  so !  The  ruin  shall  be  more  precious  to  my  soul 
than  thje  glory  only  born  to-day. 

"  Leave  me  now,  Beauchampe.     Do  not  seek  me  again 


THE    BETROTHAL.  149 

until  to-morrow.  I  would  sleep  to-day.  I  need  sleep  — 
sleep  —  more  than  anything  besides.  I  have  not  slept  once 
since  I  penned  you  that  letter." 

"Good  Heavens!  can  it  be  possible?  Oh!  you  must 
sleep.  Shall  I  not  see  you  home  at  once  ?' 

"  No !  leave  me,  Beauchampe.  I  will  find  my  way  home 
after  awhile.  Leave  me  —  will  you  not !" 

"  Yes — but  Anna,  let  me  take  this  weapon.  It  is  mine 
now,  remember,  not  yours !  Here,  with  this  hour,  Anna, 
your  practice  ends  —  ends  with  the  necessity." 

"  Take  it.     Hide  it  from  my  sight." 

He  possessed  himself  of  the  pistol,  which  he  thrust  hur 
riedly  into  his  pocket,  and  then  suddenly  embracing  and 
kissing  her,  he  cried  :  — 

"This,  Anna  —  this  —  seals  every  vow,  whether  of  love 
or  vengeance !" 

She  waved  him  off,  and  as  he  disappeared  slowly,  she 
hurried  still  deeper  into  the  wood.  What  were  her  medi 
tations  there  ?  Who  shall  say  ?  They  were  entertained 
for  hours  in  deepest  silence,  were  mournful,  yet  of  uncer 
tain  character  —  now  marked  by  a  sense  of  relief  which  was 
momentary  only,  and  still  followed  by  a  great  cloud-like 
doubt,  and  vague,  dark  terror  which  seemed  to  stretch  and 
spread  over  all  the  prospect. 

And  this  cloud  she  could  not  disperse  —  she  could  not 
penetrate.  It  was  ominous,  she  fancied,  of  her  future. 

"  Oh,  God  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  if  I  have  erred  —  if  I  have 
covered  my  soul  with  a  new  sin  in  thus  involving  this  gen 
erous  young  man  in  my  fats —  in  thus  binding  his  soul  with 
iny  own  to  the  blind  fury  of  this  wild  revenge  which  I  have 
sworn."  t 

Strange  that  she  should  doubt  in  this  regard.  Strange 
that  human  being'  in  a  Christian  land  should  really  fancy  for 
a  moment  that  God's  sanction  should  hallow  the  purposes 
of  a  bloody  vengeance.  But,  even  thus  wild  and  mistaken 
in  their  supposed  sanctions  are  half  the  purposes  of  hu- 


150  BEAUCHAMPE. 

manitj.  The  disordered  judgment,  governed  by  an  imagi 
nation  which  the  blood  has  wrought  up  to  delirious  dreams 
and  excesses,  can  always  evoke  a  sanction  for  all  its  pur 
poses,  from  some  terrible  demon  wearing  the  aspect  of 
divinity ! 

And  this  false  god  whispered  his  encouragement  audibly 
to  her  senses,  until  she  grew  satisfied — calmer — resolved 
—  confirmed  in  all  her  purposes. 

When  she  returned  home  and  met  her  mother,  she  said, 
as  quietly  as  possible  :  — 

"  Your  wishes  are  answered,  mother.  I  have  seen 
Beauchainpe.  I  have  consented  to  be  his  wife !" 

"  Have  you,  indeed,  Margaret !  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad.  He 
is  such  an  excellent  young  man,  and  of  such  a  good  family. 
Oh  !  you  will  be  happy  now,  I  know  !" 

"  Happy  !"  exclaimed  the  girl  with  a  look  of  scorn,  min 
gled  with  surprise.  "  How  can  you  fancy  that  there  should 
be  happiness  for  me  ?" 

"  And  why  not,  Margaret  ?  Who  knows  of  what's  done 
and  past  ?" 

"  He  knows !  I  have  told  Beauchainpe  the  whole  of  my 
history." 

"  What !"  almost  with  a  scream.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  you've  been  such  a  fool  as  to  tell  him  about  what 
happened  at  Charlemont — about  Alfred  Stevens  ! " 

"  All !     I  have  withheld  nothing  !" 

The  old  woman  threw  up  her  eyes  and  hands  with  a  sort 
of  terror. 

"  And  he  consents  to  marry  you  after  all !" 

"  Yes  !' 

"  I  don't  believe  it  will  ever  come  to  that!  No — nol 
Men  are  not  such  fools !  Oh  !  Margaret,  what  could  pos 
sess  you  to  tell  him  that?" 

l(  Truth,  justice !  I  could  do  no  less.  Had  I  not  told 
him,  1  had  deserved  my  fate  !" 

She  left  the  room  as  she  said  this,  and  hurried  to  the  sol 


THE    BKTROTHAL.  151 

itudcT  of  her  own.  The  mother,  when  she  was  gone,  ex 
pressed  her  horror  and  her  wonder,  at  what  she  deemed 
the  insane  proceeding  of  her  daughter,  in  more  copious 
language  than  before. 

"  It's  just  like  her.  She  was  always  different  from  every 
body  else.  Now  what  woman  of  any  sense  would  have 
told  of  such  things  to  the  very  man  that  was  offering  her 
marriage.  What  a  fool  —  what  a  fool!  If  Bcauchampe 
comes  back,  then  he's  the  fool !  But  he'll  never  come 
again.  No  —  no  !  when  he's  cooled  off,  and  begun  to  think 
over  the  matter,  he'll  go  with  a  spur.  That  a  daughter  of 
mine  should  be  such  a  fool.  But  she  don't  take  a  bit  after 
me.  All  her  foolishness  comes  from  her  father.  Cooper 
was  a  fool  too.  He  was  for  ever  a-doing,  a-thinking,  and 
a-saying,  things  different  from  everybody  else.  And  he, 
too,  would  call  it  truth,  and  right,  and  justice  ;  as  if  any 
body  had  any  reason  to  think  of  such  matters,  when  it's  a 
clear  case  of  interest  and  safety  a-pinting  all  the  other 
way.  Such  a  fool-daughter  as  she  is  !  We'll  see  if  he 
comes  again.  And  I  reckon  it's  her  only  chance;  and 
even  if  she  had  another,  with  as  good  a  man,  she'd  be  doing 
and  telling  the  same  thing  over  again.  Such  a  fool  — 
such  a  fool !  Biit  I'll  put  on  my  bonnet,  and  go  over  and 
see  the  Beauchampes,  and  see  what  they've  got  to  say 
about  it." 

And  she  prepared  herself;  but  just  as  she  was  about  to 
sally  forth,  her  daughter  reappeared,  and  arrested  her  at 
the  entrance.  She  had  divined  her  mother's  purposes,  know 
ing  something  of  her  usual  follies. 

"  Do  not  go  to  Mrs.  Beauchampe's,  mother." 

"  And  why  not,  if  all's  true  that  you've  been  telling  me  ?" 

"  You  do  not  doubt  its  truth,  mother,  I  know.     Why  1 

wish  you  not  to  go,  is  for  a  good  reason  of  my  own.     I 

must  only  repeat  that  you  must  not  go  there  now.     A  few 

days  Hence,  mother,  and  only  after  some  of  them  have  come 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Ah !  I  see !  You  have  your  fears  too,  Margaret,  that 
it's  all  a  flash-in-the-pan,  and  that  he'll  be  off;  and  that's 
the  very  reason  why  I  would  go.  We  must  clinch  the  nail 
before  it  draws." 

The  face  of  Margaret  was  full  of  ineffable  scorn. 

"  You  must  not  go,  mother.  Beauchampe  is  not  to  be 
detained,  should  he  desire  to  depart,  by  any  argument  that 
you  can  offer  ;  and  if  he  goes  —  well !  I  have  no  fear  that 
he  will  go,  and  if  such  were  really  his  inclination,  I  should 
be  the  first  to  encourage  it.  You  do  not  understand  either 
of  us.  Meddle  not.  You  can  make  nothing — may  mar 
everything,  and  will  certainly  mortify  me  !  Wait !  The 
Beauchampes  must  now  seek  you,  not  you  them  !" 

The  will  of  the  daughter  prevailed  as  usual,  though  her 
own  will  remained  a  grumbling  discontent.  Margaret, 
having  attained  her  purpose,  retired  again  to  her  chamber, 
\vastiug  no  unnecessary  words  in  answer  to  the  growling 
dissatisfaction,  that  still  seemed  inclined  to  pursue  her. 
The  old  woman  had  set  her  mind  upon  the  visit  and  yielded 
very  reluctantly  —  perhaps  would  not  have  yielded  but  for 
the  threat  of  Margaret,  sternly  expressed,  that  if  she  inter 
fered  one  bit  in  the  matter,  she  would  herself  break  away 
from  the  engagement.  The  mother  too  well  knew  the  -im 
perious  nature  of  the  daughter,  not  to  feel  the  danger  of  in 
curring  her  resentment,  after  such  a  warning.  She  con 
tented  herself  with  the  reflection  that :  — 

"  Margaret  was  a  fool  always,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
better  her  sense.  Beauchampe" — she  was  sure  —  "will 
be  certain  to  bolt  as  soon  as  he  gets  cooler  and  thinks  over 
the  matter." 

But  Beauchampe  did  not  bolt ! 

When  he  reached  home,  he  hardly  suffered  himself  to 
enter  the  house,  before  he  cried  out  to  his  mother  and  sis- 
lers :  — 

It's  all  settled!     I'm  so  happy,  mother.     0  girls  !•  all's 


THE   BETROTHAL.  153 

right.  I  shaVt  leave  you  now  for  a  long  time — perhaps 
never,  and  we  shall  all  be  so  happy  together." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Orville  ?  What  has  so  un 
settled  you?"  demanded  the  mother. 

"  Do  tell  us,  brother,  what's  made  you  so  happy  ?  What 
has  so  excited  you  ?"  demanded  Jane. 

But  Mary,  the  more  sagacious  as  the  more  sympathizing, 
said  at  once,  while  she  flung  her  arms  about  the  neck  of  her 
brother :  — 

"  Ah  !  I  know  ;  Anna  Cooke  has  consented  !" 

"  She  has  —  she  has  !  What  a  good  guesser.  You  are 
my  dear  little  sister.  Ah  !  Mary  understands  her  brother 
better  than  you  all." 

"  So !  she  has  consented  ?"  said  the  mother,  somewhat 
deliberately.  <(  And  did  she  give  you  any  explanation, 
Orville,  of  her  previous  refucal — so  stern,  so  peremptory  ?" 

"Yes,  Orville.  how  did  she  excuse  herself?  What  ex 
planation  did  she  give  ?"  demanded  Jane. 

"  Explanation  !"  exclaimed  the  brother,  a  cloud  suddenly 
covering  his  brow.  "Ay!  she  gave  me  full — ample  ex 
planation." 

"  Well !  what  was  it  ?" 

"  Enough,  mother,  that  it  was  perfectly  satisfactory  to 
me.  I  am  satisfied.  Let  us  say  no  more  on  that  subject. 
You  will  believe  ma  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  satisfied. 
Further,  1  do  not  mean  to  say.  She  is  now  mine !  all 
mine  !  and  I  am  happy." 

"  God  grant,  Orville,  that  it  be  so  !"  answered  the  mother 
in  grave  accents.  "  Yet  these  so  sudden  changes,  Orville. 
are  strange  to  me,  at  least.  But  I  will  not  cloud  your  hap 
piness  with  a  single  doubt.  I  trust  in  God  that  she  will 
bring  you  happiness,  my  son." 

"  Oh  !  never  doubt,  dear  mother.  She  is  a  glorious 
creature — noble,  beautiful — all  that  should  bring  a  man 
happiness." 

Happiness  is  not  a  creature  of  wild  impulses  and  of 

7* 


154  BEAUCHAMPE. 

great  excitements  ;  nor  is  the  glory  of  beauty,  however  un 
paralleled,  nor  the  fascinations  of  genius,  however  power 
ful,  the  best  guaranty  of  happiness  —  which  needs  sympathy, 
and  security,  above  all  things,  and  loves  the  shade  rather 
than  the  sun  ;  longing  for  quiet  not  turbulent  waters,  and 
rather  keeping  the  passions  in  leash,  than  goading  them  into 
perpetual  exercise  by  stimulating  means. 

Somehow,  the  wild  joy  of  Beauchampe  did  not  seem  to 
his  mother  the  best  guaranty  for  his  happiness.  There  was 
something  prescient  in  the  thoughts  of  the  old  lady,  which 
made  her  sigh  over  the  unborn  future. 


TH«    BRIDAL.  16/- 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE   BRIDAL. 

•'  Why,  look  you,  sir,  I  can  be  calm  as  Silence 
All  the  while  music  plays.     Strike  on,  sweet  friend, 
As  mild  and  merry  as  the  heart  of  Innocence . 
I  prithee,  take  my  temper.     Has  a  virgin 
A  heat  more  modest  V*  —  MIDDLETOH. 

A  VAST  change  had  certainly  been  wrought,  within  a  very 
few  hours,  in  the  moods  and  feelings  of  Beauchampe.  He 
had  gone  forth  weary,  dispirited,  humbled,  hopeless :  he 
had  returned  bounding,  wild,  excited  to  enthusiastic  meas 
ures —  assured,  within  himself,  of  the  attainment  of  every 
mortal  desire  that  was  precious. 

But  we  can  not  call  him  a  happy  man  —  or  one,  indeed, 
whose  prospect  of  happiness  was  very  promising.  Wo 
would  not  misuse  that  word,  as  we  fear  that  it  is  too  fre 
quently  misused.  It  is  one  the  necessity  for  which  is  very 
rare  in  the  ordinary  progress  of  society  and  life.  Its  abso 
lute  significance  is  really  to  be  found  only  in  future  condi 
tions.  But  we  need  not  go  into  any  analysis  of  its  propriety 
in  common  parlance.  Enough  that  it  deludes  most  people, 
at  some  period  or  another  in  their  lives. 

Beauchampe  said  he  was  happy  —  very  happy — and  he 
believed  what  he  said,  and  his  mother  and  sisters  wished 
to  believe,  and  Mary  certainly  did  believe,  quite  as  fer 
vently  as  her  brother  himself.  Certainly,  if  a  man  in  a 
state  of  pleasant  delirium  may  be  considered  happy,  then 
Beauchampe  was  I 


166  BEAUCHAMPZ. 

But  happiness  is  scarcely  consistent  with  any  very  great 
intensity  of  passion,  excited  to  sleeplessness  in  the  absorb 
ing  pursuit  of  a  single  object,  particularly  when  the  condi 
tion  of  the  conquest  implies  trials,  and  struggles,  and  fears, 
and  dangers,  the  measure  of  which  no  mind  can  compass, 
the  end  of  which  no  mind  can  foresee ! 

Beauchampe  had  won  the  consent  of  the  woman  whom 
he  had  sought  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  first  passion.  All 
young  men  find  it  easy  to  persuade  themselves  that  such  a 
condition  must  satisfy  all  the  longings  of  the  heart. 

But  young  men  build  on  the  sands,  and  kindle  their  fires 
too  frequently  with  dry  straw,  which  blazes  fearfully  at 
first,  but  dies  out,  leaves  no  warmth,  and  covers  the  land 
scape  with  blackened  stubble  and  fine  ashes. 

Beauchampe  was  not  deceived,  in  a  single  respect,  by  or 
with  the  woman  he  had  won.  She  was  the  very  person 
that  she  appeared  and  claimed  to  be.  She  had  concealed 
nothing  from  him  —  worn  no  mask  —  put  on  no  disguises — 
nay,  piercing  her  own  heart,  and  laying  bare  its  most  hid 
den  places,  she  had  shown  him,  so  far  as  she  herself  could 
find  and  understand  them,  the  very  motives,  moods,  inter 
ests,  impulses,  of  her  soul — which  had  informed  her  ac 
tions,  and  might  inform  them  still  —  as,  perhaps,  no  woman 
had  ever  shown  them  to  lover  before.  If  he  yet  labored 
under  any  delusion  in  respect  to  her,  she  was  not  the  cause 
of  it.  Her  pride,  as  well  as  just  sense  of  his  claims,  had 
been  at  pains  to  strip  herself  of  all  things  which  might  be 
calculated  to  delude.  The  very  secret  of  her  dishonor  was 
revealed  only  because  she  was  sworn  to  honor. 

And  he  acknowledged  no  delusions.  He  was  satisfied  — 
as  he  thought,  happy  —  and  at  first  his  joy  was  a  delirium. 
She  was  the  peerless  creature,  the  woman  among  a  world 
of  women,  such  as  he  had  thought  her  at  first. 

But  we  can  not  govern  or  restrain  the  imperious  thought 
which  works  its  way  in  the  brain  and  soul,  secretly,  even 
as  the  mole  in  the  garden  ;  and  we  never  dream  of  what  IB 


THE   BRIDAL.  157 

going  on  below,  even  though  the  loveliest  flower  in  our 
Eden  is  perishing  at  the  roots. 

After  a  few  days,  though  Beauchampe  still  exulted,  his 
mother  fancied  that  his  mind  seemed  jaded  and  wearied, 
his  fancy  had  lost  its  wing,  his  eyes  were  heavy,  yet  wan 
dering.  He  himself  was  quite  unconscious  of  these  exter 
nal  shows  of 'the  secret  nature,  but  he  too  had  a  conscious 
ness  which  disturbed  his  imagination.  The  very  fact  that 
his  betrothal  was  so  unlike  that  of  any  man  of  whom  he 
had  ever  heard  or  read — that  it  was  under  such  conditions 
—  compelled  his  thought  to  a  serious  yet  vague  exercise  of 
study,  such  as  did  not  well  comport  with  the  unreasoning 
confidence  which,  perhaps,  marks  the  presence  of  the  most 
happy  sort  of  love.  Still,  as  yet,  he  did  not  exactly  reason 
on  the  subject.  He  could  not.  The  mind  was  exerting 
itself  through  the  imagination,  experimentally,  as  it  were, 
sending  out  feelers  into  this  or  that  region  of  the  brain — 
sounding  them — then  withdrawing,  to  touch  some  other 
place. 

The  effect  was,  to  bring  into  the  otherwise  bright  atmo 
sphere  which  surrounded  him  the  perpetual  presence  of  one 
small  but  dark  and  threatening  cloud.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
but  it  was  there.  He  looked  away,  but,  when  he  turned 
his  glance  again  upon  the  spot,  it  remained,  steady  and 
threatening  as  before. 

Was  there  a  Fate  hidden  in  that  cloud  ?  Did  it  contain 
the  evil  principle,  shadowing  his  progress,  or  was  it  simply 
the  presentiment  of  evil  —  a  benignant  warning  against  the 
dangers  yet  wrapped  in  mystery  ?  Was  it  the  ominous 
sign  of  that  fierce  condition  of  hate  which  had  been  pre 
scribed  to  him  as  the  condition  of  love  ?  Could  Love  pre 
scribe  such  a  condition  —  require  such  a  sacrifice?  Was 
it  possible  for  that  meek  sentiment — so  holy,  so  certainly 
from  heaven  —  so  celestial  an  element  in  the  economy  of 
heaven  —  was  it  possible  for  such  a  sentiment  so  openly  to 
toil  in  behalf  of  its  most  deadly  antipathy  ?  Love  laboring 


158  BEAUCHAMPE. 

for  Hate !  It  well  might  bring  a  cloud  into  the  moral  at 
mosphere  of  Beauchampe's  soul,  when  he  thought  of  these 
conditions. 

And  yet  Anna  Cookc  had  really  learned  to  love  Beau- 
champe.  There  is  nothing  contradictory  or  strange  in 
this.  We  have  painted  badly,  unless  the  reader  is  pre 
pared  for  such  a  seeming  caprice  in  her  character  as  this. 
She  is,  whatever  may  be  her  boast,  scarcely  wiser  than 
when  she  was  eighteen.  All  enthusiasm  and  earnestness, 
she  was  all  confidence  then.  She  is  so  still.  Her  impres 
sions  are  sudden  and  decided.  She  sees  that  Beauchampe 
is  generous  and  noble-minded.  She  has  discerned  the  loy 
alty  of  his  character,  and  the  liberality  of  his  disposition. 
She  finds  him  intellectual.  His  frankness  wins  upon  her 
—  his  unqualified  devotion  does  the  rest.  She  sees  in  him 
the  agent  of  that  wild  passion  which  had  kept  goading  her 
without  profit  before ;  and  Love,  in  reality,  avails  himself 
of  a  very  simple  artifice  to  effect  his  purposes.  It  is  Love 
that  insinuates  to  her,  '  Here  conies  your  avenger!'  —  and, 
deceived  by  him,  she  obeys  one  passion,  when,  at  the  time, 
she  really  fancies  she  is  toiling  in  behalf  of  its  antagonist. 

See  the  further  argument  —  felt,  not  expressed  —  of  this 
wily  logician ! 

He  suggests  to  her  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  that  Beau 
champe  will  ever  be  called  upon  to  fulfil  his  fearful  pledges. 
For,  where  is  the  betrayer  ?  For  five  years  had  the  name 
been  unspoken  in  the  ears  of  his  victim ;  for  five  years  he 
had  eluded  all  traces  of  herself  and  friends.  He  was  gone, 
as  if  he  had  not  been  ;  and  the  presumption  was  strong  that 
he  was  of  some  very  distant  region ;  that  he  would  be  very 
careful  to  avoid  that  neighborhood,  hereafter,  in  which  his 
crime  had  been  committed :  and  as,  in  equal  probability, 
the  lot  was  cast  which  made  this  limited  scene  the  whole 
world  of  Beauchampe's  future  life,  so  it  followed  that  they 
would  never  meet ;  that  the  trial,  to  which  she  had  sworn 
him,  would  never  be  exacted ;  and,  subdued  by  time,  and 


THE    BRIDAL.  159 

the  absence  of  the  usual  cxcitcrncuts,  the  pang  would  be 
softened  in  her  heart,  the  recollection  would  gradually  fade 
from  her  memory,  and  life  would  once  more  be  a  progress 
of  comparative  peace,  and  probably  of  innocent  enjoyment. 
It  is  an  adroit,  and  not  an  infrequent  policy  of  Love,  to 
make  his  approaches  under  the  cover  of  a  flag  which  none 
is  so  pleased  to  trample  under  foot  as  he.  He  knows  the 
usual  practices  of  war,  and  has  no  conscientious  scruples 
in  the  employment  of  an  ordinary  ruse.  The  drift  of  his 
policy  was  not  seen  by  the  mind  of  Anna  Cooke ;  but  it 
was  —  though  less  obvious  than  some  of  her  instincts — not 
the  less  an  instinct.  Nay,  more  certainly  an  instinct,  for  it 
was  of  the  emotions ;  while  those  of  which  she  had  spoken 
to  Beauchampe  were  nothing  more  than  the  suggestions  of 
monomania.  Her  imagination,  brooding  ever  on  the  same 
topic,  was  always  on  the  watch  to  convert  all  objects  into 
its  agents ;  and  never  more  ready  than  when  Love,  coming 
forward  with  his  suggestions,  lent  that  seeming  aid  to  his 
enemy  which  was  really  intended  for  his  overthrow.  It 
was  only  when  she  had  become  the  wife  of  Beauchampe 
that  she  became  aware  of  the  true  nature  of  those  feelings 
which  had  brought  about  her  marriage.  It  was  after  the 
tie  was  indissolubly  knit — after  he  had  pressed  his  lips  to 
hers  with  a  husband's  kiss  —  that  she  was  made  conscious 
of  the  danger  to  herself  from  the  performance  of  the  condi 
tions  to  which  he  was  pledged.  The  fear  of  his  danger 
first  taught  her  that  it  was  love,  and  not  the  mere  passion 
for  revenge,  which  had  wrought  within  her  from  the  mo 
ment  when  she  first  met  him.  The  moment  she  reflected 
upon  the  risk  of  life  to  which  he  was  sworn,  that  moment 
awakened  in  her  bosom  the  full  appreciation  of  his  worth. 
Then,  instead  of  urging  upon  him  the  subject  of  his  oath, 
she  shuddered  but  to  think  upon  it ;  and,  in  her  prayers  — 
for  ohe  suddenly  had  learned  to  pray  —  she  implored  that 
the  trial  might  be  spared  him,  to  which,  previously,  her 
whole  soul  had  entirely  been  surrendered. 


1GO  BEAUCHAMPE. 

But  she  prayed  in  vain — possibly  because  she  had  learned 
to  pray  so  lately.  Ah !  how  easy  would  be  all  lessons  of 
good  —  how  easy  of  attainment  and  of  retention  —  did  we 
only  learn  to  pray  sufficiently  soon  !  The  habit  of  prayer 
is  so  sure  to  induce  humility  !  and  humility  is,  after  all,  and 
before  all,  one  of  the  most  certain  sources  of  that  divine 
strength,  arising  from  love  and  justice,  which  sustains  the 
otherwise  falling  and  fearful  world  of  our  grovelling  hu 
manity. 

The  wife  of  Beauchampe  prayed  beside  him  while  he 
slept.  She  prayed  for  mercy.  She  prayed  against  that 
fatal  oath.  Far  better — such  was  her  thought — that  the 
criminal  should  escape  for  ever,  than  that  her  husband's 
hands  should  carry  the  dagger  of  the  avenger.  She  now, 
for  the  first  time,  recognised  the  solemn  force,  the  terrible 
emphasis,  in  the  Divine  assurance  —  "  Vengeance  is  mine  !" 
saith  the  Lord.  She  was  now  willing  that  the  Lord  should 
exercise  his  sovereign  right. 

But  all  this  is  premature.  This  change  in  her  heart  and 
mind  was  only  now  in  slow  and  unsuspected  progress.  It 
required  time,  the  actual  formation  of  the  new  ties,  the 
actual  exercise  of  the  feminine  duties  in  an  humble  and  as 
yet  happy  household.  Up  to  the  moment  of  her  marriage, 
there  had  been  no  change  in  her  heart  or  its  purposes,  such 
as  moved  her  to  any  change  in  the  conditions  of  the  mar 
riage.  Far  from  it.  When,  on  the  contrary,  the  time  aj>- 
proached,  she  summoned  Beauchampe  to  a  private  interview 
the  afternoon  before  the  nuptials.  They  met,  by  appoint 
ment,  in  the  same  wood  where  the  engagement  had  been 
made.  Her  sombre  spirit  was  on  her,  wrapping  her  as  in  a 
pall ;  and,  at  his  approach,  she  said  abruptly  and  sternly: 

"  Beauchampe,  the  time  has  come.  But  it  is  not  too 
late.  You  are  at  liberty,  even  now,  to  withdraw  from 
these  bonds.  If  you  will  it,  Beauchampe,  you  are  free 
from  this  moment,  and  shall  never  hear  reproach  of 


THE   BRIDAL.  161 

Ho  rejected  the  boon  proffered  him,  with  indignant  but 
loving  reproaches. 

"  Have  you  summoned  me  for  this,  Anna  ?" 

"  No  !  not  for  this  only  —  in  part.  It  was  due  to  you  to 
afford  you  a  last  opportunity  of  escaping  the  terrible  condi 
tions  upon  which  only  can  my  hand  be  given.  This,  you 
know,  was  my  oath.  It  requires  yours.  If  you  persist  in 
claiming  my  hand  —  swear  to  avenge  its  dishonor!" 

And  she  lifted  up  her  hands  in  solemn  adjuration,  and 
he  obeyed  her ;  and  there,  in  that  silent  solitude,  he  uttered 
audibly  the  oath  to  avenge  her  shame  —  to  sacrifice  her 
seducer,  at  bloody  altars,  the  moment  he  should  be  found ! 

And  it  was  as  if  the  demons  of  the  air  which  had  inspired, 
trooped  round  to  receive,  the  oath  ;  for  the  sky  darkened 
above  them,  even  as  the  vow  was  uttered,  and  the  awful 
stillness  of  the  wood  was  as  if  the  spirits  were  all  listening 
breathlessly. 

"  Enough,  Beaucharnpe  !  It  is  done.  To-morrow  I  am 
yours !" 

And,  with  these  words,  she  left  him  —  no  kiss,  no  em 
brace,  no  look  or  word  of  tenderness. 

But  he  looked  for  none  —  expected  none.  It  was  not  a 
moment,  nor  were  the  moods  of  either  suitable,  for  caresses. 
He  looked  up  at  the  cloud  as  she  went  from  sight,  and 
enveloped  in  it,  as  he  thought,  for  more  than  an  hour  he 
walked  that  wood,  his  fancies  sublimed  with  the  terrible 
oath  which  he  had  taken,  and  his  whole  soul  shadowed  as  it 
vvere  with  the  stately  pall  of  velvet  in  some  great  solemnity. 

The  marriage  followed  the  next  day.  The  bride  was 
calm  and  very  pale,  but  firm  and  placid.  Beauchampe's 
eye  was  eager  and  bright,  and  hi3  checks  flushed  with  hope 
and  triumph.  lie  felt  sure  that  he  was  happy ;  and  the 
cloud  seemed  to  disappear  from  before  his  sight,  and,  for 
the  moment,  his  landscape  was  without  a  speck. 

And,  in  the  sight  of  his  joy,  the  mother  and  the  sisters 
forgot  their  apprehension  ,  and  they  took  the  bride  to  their 


162  BEAUCHAMPE. 

hearts  as  warmly  as  if  they  had  never  felt  upon  their  souls 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  But,  even  as  the  bridal  vow  was 
taken,  Fear  took  the  place  of  Hate  in  the  soul  of  the  bride, 
and  she  shuddered,  she  knew  not  why,  at  the  kiss  of  her 
husband,  which,  as  it  declared  the  warmth  of  his  passion, 
brought  up  in  dark  array  before  her  eyes  the  images  and 
events  of  terror  to  which  that  kiss  had  pledged  him  for 
ever! 


THE    HONEYMOON  1W 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE  HONEYMOON. 

"  What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth, 
The  violets  bed's  not  sweeter." — MIDDLETOBT 

"  Oh  !  I  distrust  this  happiness  ;  it  seems 
Too  exquisite  to  last.     I  fancy  clouds 
Already  gather  on  the  sky  of  bliss." — Old  Play. 

THEY  were  now  man  and  wife.  The  bond,  for  weal  or 
wo,  was  indissolubly  fastened.  But,  for  the  present,  wo 
must  not  speak  of  wo.  It  did  not  now  seem  to  threaten 
flie  happy  household,  of  which  Beauchampe  was  now  the 
lord.  In  the  novel  joy  of  his  situation,  the  enthusiastic  young 
man  lost  sight  of  days  and  weeks  and  months.  With  very 
happiness  he  grew  idle  —  the  mind  conquered  by  the  heart. 
Law  and  politics  were  alike  forgotten.  He  had  no  call  to 
them  at  present.  He  was  in  a  dream  —  in  a  dream-land 
like  that  of  Eden,  in  which  toil  was  a  stranger,  and  care, 
that  ever-intriguing  toad  was  kept  off  by  the  Ithuriel  spear 
of  pleasure.  lie  could  have  mused  away  life  in  this  man 
ner —  never  once  conscious  of  the  flight  of  time  —  there, 
amid  groves  of  unbroken  shade,  with  the  one  companion. 
And  she  —  did  she  share  the  happiness  which  she  imparted  ? 
Did  the  cruel  fate  relax  in  his  persecutions  ?  In  the  em 
braces  of  that  fond  young  heart,  did  she  forget  the  sting 
and  agony  of  the  past  —  did  she  lose  herself  a  moment  in 
the  new  dream  of  a  fresh  and  better  existence  ? 


164  BEAUCHAMPS. 

It  is  but  reasonable  to  suppose  that  she  did.  She  sang 
now,  and  her  voice  was  a  very  rich  and  powerful  one  — 
combining  the  soul  and  strength  of  man  with  the  sweetness 
and  freedom  of  the  bird.  While  her  voice,  in  musing 
thought,  subdued  by  humility  to  devotion,  was  full  of  a 
charming  philosophy  —  social  yet  imaginative  always  — 
which  would  not  have  been  unworthy  of  the  lips  of  a  divine 
priestess  officiating  among  the  oaks  of  Dodona,  her  soul, 
aroused  by  the  sympathies  of  an  ear  which  she  wished  to 
please,  never  poured  forth  strains  of  such  sweet  eloquence 
and  song.  She  could  improvise  both  verse  and  music.  She 
resumed  her  pen  and  wrote  as  well  as  sang  ;  and  her  verses 
grew  less  and  less  sombrous  daily. 

Beauchampe  was  all  happiness,  lie  had  found  a  muse 
and  a  woman  in  one !  Surely,  they  were,  neither  of  them, 
unhappy  then  ! 

But  the  fates  were  not  satisfied,  even  if  their  victims 
wore  forgetful.  It  was  decreed  that  our  hero  should  be 
awakened  from  his  dream  of  happiness.  One  day  a  letter 
was  put  into  Beauchampe's  hands.  He  read  it  with  a 
cloudy  brow.  ( 

"  No  bad  news,  Beauchampe?"  was  the  remark  of  his 
wife,  expressed  with  some  solicitude. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  tenderly.  "  Yes,  for  I  am  forced 
to  leave  you  for  awhile.  Read." 

He  handed  her  the  letter  as  he  spoke.  She  read  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"DEAR  BEAUCHAMPE:  —  The  campaign  has  opened  with 
considerable  vigor,  and  we  feel  the  want  of  you.  The 
sooner  you  come  to  the  rescue  the  better.  We  must  put 
all  our  lieutenants  into  the  field.  This  fellow,  Calve rt,  is 
said  to  be  doing  execution  among  our  pigeons.  He  is  quite 
successful  on  the  stump.  At  G—  -  he  carried  everything 
before  him,  and  fairly  swept  Jenkins  and  Clemens  out  of 
sight.  He  is  to  address  the  people  at  Bowling-Green  OD 


THE    HONEYMOON.  165 

the  7 th,  and  you  must  certainly  meet  us  there  ;  or,  shall 
I  take  you  on  my  way  down  ?  Barnabas  comes  with  me. 
He  insists  that  we  shall  need  every  help,  and  is  decidedly 
aguish.  He  has  somehow  contrived  to  make  me  a  little 
apprehensive  that  we  have  been  too  confident,  and  ac 
cordingly  a  little  remiss.  He  reports  this  man,  Calvert, 
as  a  sort  of  giant,  and  openly  asserts  him  to  be  one  of 
the  most  able,  popular  orators  we  have  ever  had.  He 
has  a  fine  voice,  excellent  manners,  is  very  fluent,  and  has 
his  arguments  at  his  finger-ends.  I  can  not  think  that 
I  have  any  reason  to  fear  him  whenever  I  can  meet  with 
him  in  person.  But  this,  just  now,  is  the  difficulty.  The 
difference  between  a  young  lawyer  in  little  practice,  and 
one  with  his  hands  full,  is  something  important.  Should  I 
not  join  you  on  the  6th,  you  had  bettor  go  on  to  the  Green. 
He  will  be  there  by  that  time.  1  will  meet  you  there  cer 
tainly  by  the  8th  ;  though  I  shall  make  an  effort  to  take  the 
stump  on  the  7th,  if  I  can.  Should  I  fail,  however,  as  is 
possible,  you  must  be  there  to  take  it  for  me,  and  maintain 
it  till  1  come.  Barnabas  and  myself  will  then  relieve  you, 
and  finish  the  game. 

"  Why  do  we  not  hear  from  you  ?  Whisker-Ben  said  at 
Club  last  night  that  he  had  heard  some  rumor  that  you 
were  married  or  about  to  be  married.  We  take  it  for 
granted,  however,  that  the  invention  is  his  own.  Barnabas 
llatly  denied  it,  and  even  the  pope  (his  nose,  by  the  way,  is 
thoroughly  recovered)  expressed  his  opinion  that  you  were 
'  no  such  ass.'  Of  course,  he  suffered  neither  his  own,  nor 
my  wife,  to  hear  this  complimentary  opinion.  One  thing, 
however,  was  agreed  upon  .among  us,  viz.  :  that  you  were 
just  the  man,  not  only  to  do  a  foolish  thing,  but  an  impol 
itic  one  ;  and  a  vote  was  carried,  nem.  con.,  in  which  it  was 
resolved  to  inform  you  that,  in  '  the  opinion  of  this  club, 
marriage  is  a  valuable  consideration.'  A  word  to  the  wise, 
etc.  You  know  the  proverb.  Barnabas  spoke  to  this  sub 
ject.  Whisker-lien,  too,  was  quite  eloquent.  '  What/ 


166  BEAUCHAMPE. 

said  he,  '  are  the  moral  possessions  of  a  woman  ?  I  answer, 
bank-notes,  bonds,  sound  stocks,  and  other  chosesin  action. 
Her  physical  possessions,  I  count  to  be  lands  and  negroes, 
beauty,  a  good  voice,  &c.  Uis  distinction  was  recognised 
as  the  true  one  by  everybody  but  ZAUERKRAOUT,  who  now 
wears  the  red  hat  in  place  of  Finnikin.  He  thinks  that 
negroes  should  be  counted  among  the  moral  possessions, 
or,  at  least,  as  of  a  mixed  character,  moral  and  physical. 
I  will  not  trouble  you  with  more  of  the  debate  than  the 
summary.  An  inquiry  was  made  into  your  qualities,  and 
the  chances  before  you,  and  you  were  then  rated,  and  found 
to  be  worth  seventy-five  thousand  dollars,  the  interest  of 
which,  at  five  per  cent.,  being  five  thousand  dollars,  it  was 
resolved  that  you  be  counselled  not  to  marry  any  woman 
whose  income  is  less.  A  certificate  of  so  much  stock  in  the 
club  will  be  despatched  you  to  assist  in  any  future  opera 
tions  ;  as  a  friend  to  yourself,  not  less  than  to  the  club,  let 
me  exhort  you'' to  give  heed  to  its  counsels.  '  Marriage  is 
a  valuable  consideration."  Marry  no  woman  whose  in 
come  is  not  quite  as  good  as  your  own.  As  a  lawyer,  in 
tolerable  practice,  you  may  fairly  estimate  your  capital  at 
thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars.  If  you  have  a  pretty 
woman  near  you,  before  you  look  at  her  again,  see  what 
she's  worth  ;  and  lose  sight  of  her  as  soon  as  you  can,  un 
less  she  brings  in  a  capital  to  the  concern,  equal  to  your 
own.  Be  as  little  of  a  boy  in  these  matters  as  possible.  In 
no  other,  I  think,  are  you  likely  to  be  a  boy !  Adieu  !  If 
you  do  not  see  me  on  the  6th,  start  for  the  Green  by  the 
7th.  I  shall  surely  be  there  by  the  8th.  Barnabas  sends 
his  blessing,  nor  does  the  pope  withhold  his.  He  evidently 
thinks  less  unfavorably  of  you,  since  his  nose  has  been  pro 
nounced  out  of  danger.  "  Lovingly  yours, 
"  J.  0.  BEAUCHAMPE,  Esq."  "  W.  P.  SHARPE. 

The  wife  read  the  letter  slowly.    Its  contents  struck  her 
strangely.     It  had  something  in  its  tone  like  that  of  one 


TUE    HONEYMOON.  167 

whom  she  had  been  accustomed  to  hear.  The  contents  of 
it  were  nothing.  The  meaning  was  obvious  enough.  Of 
the  parties  she  knew  nothing.  But  there  was  the  sentiment 
of  the  writer,  which,  like  the  key-note  in  music,  pervaded 
he  performance  —  not  necessarily  a  part  of  its  material,  yel 
giving  a  character  of  its  own  to  the  whole.  That  key-note 
was  not  an  elevated  one.  She  looked  up.  Her  husband 
had  been  observing  her  countenance.  A  slight  suffusion 
flushed  her  cheek  as  her  eyes  met  his. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  W.  P.  Sharpe,"  said  she,  "  who  counsels 
so  boldly,  and  I  may  add  so  selfishly  ?" 

"  He  is  the  gentleman  with  whom  I  studied  law  —  one 
of  our  best  lawyers,  a  great  politician  and  very  distinguished 
man.  He  is  now  up  for  the  assembly,  and,  as  you  see, 
thinks  that  I  can  promote  his  election  by  my  eloquence. 
What  think  you,  Anna  ?" 

"  I  think  you  have  eloquence,  Beauchampe  —  I  should 
think  you  would  become  a  very  popular  speaker.  You  have 
boldness,  which  is  one  great  essential.  You  have  a  lively 
imagination  and  free  command  of  language,  and  your  gen 
eral  enthusiasm  would  at  least  make  you  a  very  earnest 
advocate.  There  should  be  something  in  the  cause — the 
occasion  —  no  doubt,  and " 

She  stopped. 

t;  Go  on,"  said  he  —  "what  would  you  say?" 

"  That  I  should  doubt  very  much  whether  the  occasion 
here"  lifting  up  the  letter — "  would  be  sufficient  to  stimu 
late  you  to  do  justice  to  yourself." 

The  youth  looked  grave.  She  noticed  the  expression, 
and  with  more  solicitude  than  usual,  continued:— 

"  I  think  I  know  you,  Beauchampe.  It  is  no  disparage 
ment  to  you  to  say  I  something  wonder  how  such  people  as 
are  here  self-described  should  have  been  associates  of  yours." 

"  Strictly  speaking  they  were  not,"  he  replied,  with 
something  of  a  blush  upon  his  face.  "  I  know  but  very  lit 
tle  of  them.  But  you  are  to  understand  that  there  is  exag- 


168  BEAUCHAMPE. 

geration  —  which  is  perhaps  the  only  idea  of  fun  that  our 
people  seem  to  have  —  in  the  design  and  objects  of  this 
club.  It  is  a  lawyers'  society,  and  Colonel  Sharpc  insisted, 
the  day  that  I  graduated,  that  I  must  become  a  member. 
I  attached  no  importance  to  the  matter  cither  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  readily  consented.  I  confess  to  you,  Anna, 
that  what  I  beheld,  the  only  night  when  I  did  attend  their 
orgies,  made  me  resolve,  even  before  seeing  you,  to  forswear 
the  fraternity.  We  do  not  sympathize,  as  you  may  imagine. 
But  no  more,  I  fancy,  does  the  writer  of  this  letter  sympa 
thize  with  them.  Colonel  Sharpe  is  willing  to  relax  a  little 
from  serious  labors,  and  he  takes  this  mode  as  being  just  aa 
good  as  any  other.  These  people  are  scarcely  more  than 
creatures  for  his  amusement." 

The  wife  looked  grave  but  said  no  more,  and  Bcau- 
champc  sat  down  to  write  an  answer.  This  answer  as  may 
be  supposed,  confirmed  the  story  of  Whisker-Ben,  legiti 
mated  all  the  apprehensions  of  the  club,  and  assured  the 
writer  of  the  letter  that  his  counsels  of  "  moral  prudence" 
had  come  too  late.  He  had  not  only  wedded,  but  wedded 
without  any  reference  to  the  possessions,  such  as  had  been 
described  as  moral,  at  least  by  the  philosophers  of  the  fra 
ternity. 

"  My  wife,"  said  the  letter  of  the  writer — "  has  beauty 
and  youth,  and  intellect — beauty  beyond  comparison  —  and 
a  grace  and  spirit  about  her  genius  that  seem  to  me  equally 
so.  Beyond  these,  and  her  noble  heart,  I  am  not  sure  that 
she  lias  any  possessions.  I  believe  she  is  poor ;  but  really, 
until  you  suggested  the  topic,  I  never  once  thought  of  it. 
To  me,  I  assure  you,  however  heretical  the  confession  may 
seem,  I  care  not  a  straw  for  fortune.  Indeed,  I  shall  bo 
the  better  pleased  to  discover  that  my  wife  brings  me  noth 
ing  but  herself." 

The  letter  closed  with  the  assurance  of  the  writer  that 
he  should  punctually  attend  at  the  gathering,  and  do  his 
best  to  maintain  the  cause  and  combat  of  his  friend. 


THE   HONEYMOON.  169 

"  Is  this  Colonel  Sharpe  so  very  much  your  friend,  Beau- 
champe  ?"  demanded  his  wife  when  he  had  read  to  her  a 
portion  of  his  letter. 

"  He  has  been  friendly  —  has  treated  me  with  attention 
as  his  pupil  —  has  not  spared  his  compliments,  and  is  what 
is  called  a  fine  gentleman.  I  can  not  say  that  he  is  a  char 
acter  whom  I  unreservedly  admire.  lie  is  a  man  of  loose 
principles — lacks  faith  —  is  pleased  in  showing  his  skepti 
cism  on  subjects  which  would  better  justify  veneration  : 
and,  of  the  higher  sort  of  friendships  which  implies  a  loy 
alty  almost  akin  to  devotion,  lie  is  utterly  incapable.  Seek 
ing  this  loyalty  in  my  friend,  I  should  not  seek  him.  But 
for  ordinary  uses  —  for  social  purposes  —  as  a  good  com 
panion,  an  intelligent  authority,  Colonel  Sharpe  would  al 
ways  be  desirable.  You  will  like  him,  I  think.  He  is  well 
read,  very  fluent,  and  though  he  docs  not  believe  in  the 
ideals  of  the  heart  and  fancy,  he  reads  poetry  as  if  he  wrote 
it.  You,  who  do  write  it,  Anna,  will  think  better  of  him 
when  you  hear  him  read  it." 

"  Do  you  know  his  wife,  Beauchampe  ?" 

"No  —  strange  to  say,  I  do  not.  I  have  seen  her;  she 
is  pretty,  but  it  is  said  they  do  not  live  happily  together." 

"  How  many  stories  there  are  of  people  who  do  not 
live  happily  together ;  and  if  true,  what  a  strange  thing  it 
is,  that  such  should  be  the  case.  Yet,  no  doubt,  they 
fancied,  at  the  first,  that  they  loved  one  another ;  unless, 
Beauchampe,  they  were  counselled  by  some  such  club  as 
yours.  If  so,  there  could  be  no  difficulty  in  understanding 
it  all." 

"  But  with  those,  Anna,  who  reject  the  advice  of  the 
club  ?" 

"  Can  it  ever  be  so  with  them,  Beauchampe  ?  I  think 
not.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  never  be  satisfied  to 
change  what  is  for  what  might  be.  Are  you  not  content, 
Beauchampe  ?" 

"  Am  I  not  ?  Beliere  me  it  makes  my  heart  tremble  to 

8 


170  BEAUCHAMPE. 

think  of  the  brief  separation  which  this  election  business 
calls  for.  Sharpe  little  knows  what  a  sacrifice  I  make  to 
serve  him." 

"  And  if  I  read  this  letter  of  his  aright,  he  would  laugh 
you  to  scorn  for  the  confession." 

"No!  that  he  should  not." 

"  You  would  not  see  it,  Beauchampe.     You  are  perhaps 
too  necessary  to  this  man.     But  who  is  Mr.  Culvert — is 
he  an  elderly  man?  —  I  once  knew  a  very  worthy  old  gen 
tlemari  of  that  name.     He  too  had  been  a  lawyer  and  was 
a  man  of  talents." 

u  This  is  a  very  young  man,  I  believe ;  not  much  older 
dian  myself.  He  does  not  practise  in  our  counties  and  I 
have  never  seen  him.  Judge  Tompkins  brings  him  for 
ward.  You  see  what  Sharpe  says  is  said  of  him.  It  will 
do  me  no  discredit  to  grapple  with  him,  even  should  he 
fling  me." 

"  Somehow,  I  think  well  of  him  already,"  said  the  wife. 
"  I  would  you  were  with  him,  Beauchampe,  rather  than 
against  him.  Somehow,  I  do  not  incline  to  this  Colonel 
Sharpe.  I  wish  you  were  not  his  ally." 

"  What  a  prejudice  !  But  you  will  think  better  of  the 
colonel  when  you  see  him.  I  shall  probably  bring  him 
home  with  me !" 

The  wife  said  nothing  more,  but  there  was  a  secret  feel 
ing  at  her  heart  that  rendered  this  assurance  an  irksome 
one.  Somehow,  she  wished  that  Bcauchampe  might  not 
bring  this  person  to  his  house.  Her  impression  —  which 
was  certainly  derived  from  his  letter  —  was  an  unfavorable 
one.  She  fancied,  after  awhile,  that  her  objection  was  only 
the  natural  reluctance  to  see  strangers,  of  one  who  had  so 
long  secluded  herself  from  the  sight  of  all ;  and  thus  she 
rested,  until  Beauchampo  was  about  to  take  his  departure 
to  attend  the  gathering  at  Bowling-Green,  and  then  the 
same  feeling  found  utterance  again. 

u  Do  not  bring  home  any  friends,  Beauchampe.     I  am 


THE  HONEYMOON.  I'M 

not  fit,  not  willing  to  see  them.  Remember  how  long"! 
have  been  shut  in  from  the  world.  Force  me  not  into  it. 
Now  we  have  security,  husband  — I  dread  change  of  any 
kind  as  if  it  were  death.  Strange  faces  will  only  give  me 
pain.  Do  not  bring  any  !" 

"  What !  not  Colonel  Sharpe  !  I  care  to  bring  no  other. 
I  could  scarcely  get  off  from  bringing  him.  At  least  I  must 
ask  him,  Anna;  and,  I  confess  to  you,  I  shall  not  be  dis 
pleased  if  he  does  decline.  The  probability  is  that  he  will 
for  his  hands  are  full." 

She  turned  in  from  the  gate,  saying  nothing  further  on 
this  subject,  but  feeling  an  internal  hope,  which  she  could 
not  repress,  that  this  would  be  the  case.  Nay,  somehow, 
she  felt  as  if  she  would  prefer  that  Beauchampe  would  bring 
any  other  friend  than  this. 

How  prescient  is  the  soul  that  loves  and  fears  !  Talk  of 
your  mesmerism  as  you  will,  there  are  some  divine  instincts 
in  our  nature  which  are  as  apprehensive  of  the  coming 
event,  as  if  they  were  already  a  part  of  it.  It  is  as  if  they 
see  the  lightning-dash  which  informs  the  event,  long  before 
the  thunder-peal  which,  like  the  voice  of  fame,  comes  slowl? 
to  declare  that  all  is  over. 


172  BEAUCHAMP*. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

STUMP   PATRIOTS. 

WERE  we  at  the  beginning  of  our  journey,  instead  of 
being  so  far  advanced  on  our  way,  it  would  be  a  pleasant 
mode  of  wasting  an  hour,  to  descant  on  the  shows  and 
practices  of  a  popular  gathering  in  our  forest  country.  The 
picture  is  a  strange,  if  not  a  startling  one.  Its  more  prorr- 
iuent  aspects  must,  however,  be  imagined  by  the  reader 
We  have  now  no  time  for  mere  description.  The  more  de 
cidedly  narrative  parts  of  our  story  arc  finished.  As  we 
tend  to  the  denouement,  the  action  necessarily  becomes 
more  rapid  and  more  dramatic.  The  supernumeraries  cease 
to  ihrust  in  their  lanthern-long  images  upon  us.  This  is  no 
place  for  meditative  philosophers ;  and  none  are  suffered  to 
appear  except  those  who  do  and  suffer,  with  the  few  subor 
dinates  which  the  exigency  of  the  case  demands,  for  dispo 
sing  the  draperies  decently,  and  letting  down  the  curtain. 

Were  it  otherwise  —  were  not  this  disposition  of  the  parts 
and  parties  inevitable  —  it  would  afford  us  pleasure  to  give 
a  camera-obscura  representation  of  the  figures,  coming  and 
going,  who  mingle  and  dance  around  the  great  political 
caldron  during  the  canvass  of  a  closely-contested  election  : 

"  Black  spirits  and  white, 
Red  spirits  and  gray ; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle, 
You  that  mingle  may.' 

And  various  indeed  was  the  assortment  of  spirits  that 
assembled  to  hear  liquid  argument — and  drink  it  too  —  OD 


STUMP    PATRIOTS.  173 

the  present  occasion.  Fancy  the  crowd,  the  commotion, 
the  sharp  jest  and  the  wild  laughter,  most  accommodating 
of  all  possible  readers,  and  spare  us  the  necessity  of  dila 
ting  upon  it.  We  will  serve  you  some  such  scene,  with 
all  its  lights  and  shadows,  on  some  other  more  fitting  oc 
casion. 

Something,  however,  is  to  be  shown.  You  arc  to  sup 
pose  a  crowd  of  several  hundred  persons,  shrewd,  sensible 
people  enough,  after  their  fashion  —  rough-handed  men  of 
the  woods,  good  at  the  plough  and  wagon  —  masters  of  the 
axe,  treo-quellers  and  bog-killers —a  stout  race,  rugged  it 
may  be,  but  not  always  rude  —  hospitable,  free-handed  — 
ignorant  of  delicacies,  but  born  with  a  strong  conviction 
that  much  is  to  be  known,  much  acquired  —  that  they  arc 
the  born  inheritors  of  much  —  rights,  privileges,  liberties  — 
sacred  possessions  which  require  looking  after,  and  are  not 
to  bo  intrusted  to  every  hand.  Often  deceived,  they  are 
necessarily  jealous  on  this  subject;  and,  growing  a  little 
wiser  with  every  political  loss,  they  come  to  their  patrimony 
with  an  hourly-increasing  knowledge  of  its  value  and  its 
peculiar  characteristics.  Not  much  learning  have  they, 
but,  in  lieu  of  it,  they  can  tell  "  hawk  from  handsaw"  in 
all  stages  of  the  wind  ;  which  is  a  wisdom  that  your  learned 
man  is  not  often  master  of.  You  may  cheat  them  once, 
nay,  twice,  or  thrice,  for  they  are  frank  and  confiding ;  but 
the  same  man  can  not  often  cheat  them  ;  and  one  thing  is 
certain  —  that  they  can  extract  the  uses  from  a  politician, 
and  then  fling  him  away,  as  sagaciously  as  the  urchin  who 
deals  in  like  manner  with  the  orange-sack  which  lie  has 
sucked. 

Talk  of  politicians  ruling  the  American  people !  Lord 
love  you !  whore  do  you  find  these  great  rulers  after  five 
years  ?  Sucked,  squeezed,  thrown  by,  an  atom  in  the  dung- 
heap  !  Precious  few  of  these  men  of  popular  dimensions 
survive  their  own  clamor.  Even  while  they  shout  upon 
their  petty  eminences,  the  world  has  hurried  on  and  left 


174  BEAUCHAMPE. 

them  ;  and  there  they  stand, 'open-mouthed  and  wondering! 
Waking  at  length,  they  ask,  like  the  shipwrecked  traveller 
on  the  shore :  "  Where  am  I  ?  where  is  my  people  ?"*  My 
people! — ha!  ha!  ha!  There  is  something  worse  than 
mockery  in  that  shout.  It  is  my  people  that  speaks,  but 
the  voice  is  changed.  It  is  now  thy  people.  The  sceptre 
has  departed.  Ephraim  is  no  longer  an  idol  among  them. 
They  have  other  gods;  and  the  late  exalted  politician, 
freezing  on  his  narrow  eminence,  grows  dumb  for  ever  — 
stiff,  stone-eyed  —  like  the  sphinx,  brooding  in  her  sinking 
sands,  saying,  as  it  were,  "  Ask  me  nothing  of  what  I  was, 
for  now  see  you  not  that  I  am  nothing  ?" 

Precious  little  of  such  a  fate  dreams  he,  the  high-cheeked, 
sunburnt  orator,  that  now  rallies  the  stout  peasantry  at 
Bowling-Green.  lie  thinks  not  so  much  of  perpetual  fame 
as  of  perpetual  office.  He  has  a  faith  in  office  which  shall 
last  him  much  longer  than  that  which  he  professes  to  have 
in  the  people.  He  hath  not  so  much  faith  in  them  as  in 
their  gifts.  But  he  fancies  not — not  he  —  that  the  shouts 
which  now  respond  to  his  utterance  shall  ever  refuse  re 
sponse  to  his  summons.  He  assumes  a  saving  exception 
in  his  own  case,  which  shall  make  him  sure  in  the  very 
places  where  his  predecessors  failed.  He  hath  an  unctuous 
way  with  him  which  makes  his  faith  confident ;  and  his 
voice  thunders,  and  his  eye  lightens ;  and  lie  rains  precious 
drops  among  them,  which  might  be  eloquence,  if  it  were 
not  balderdash ! 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?"  quoth  our  young  hero  Bcauchampe, 
as  he  listened  to  the  muddy  torrent,  which,  like  some  turbid 
river,  having  overflowed  its  banks,  comes  down,  rending  and 
raging,  a  thick  flood  of  slime  and  foam,  bringing  along  with 
it  the  refuse  of  nauseous  places,  and  low  flats,  and  swampy 
bottoms,  and  offal-stalls ! 

The  youth  was  bewildered.     The  eloquent  man  was  so 

*  Years  after  this  was  published,  even  Webster  was  heard  to  ask,  in  this 
Tery  condition  of  bewilderment,  "  Where  am  7  to  go  ?" 


STUMP    PATRIOTS.  175 

sure  of  his  ground  and  auditors  —  seemed  so  confident  in 
his  strength  —  so  little  like  a  doubting  giant — that  it  was 
long  before  Beauchampe  could  discover  that  he  was  a  mere 
wind-bag,  a  bloated  vessel  of  impure  air,  that,  becoming 
fixed  air  through  a  natural  process,  at  length  explodes  and 
breaks  forth  with  a  violence  duly  proportioned  to  its  noi- 
someness. 

"  This  can  not  be  the  man  Calvert !"  soliloquized  our  hero. 
It  was  not.  But,  when  the  wind-bag  was  exhausted  — 
which,  by  a  merciful  Providence,  was  at  length  the  case — 
then  arose  another  speaker  ;  and  then  did  Beauchampe  note 
the  vast  difference,  even  before  the  latter  spoke,  which  was 
at  once  evident  between  the  two. 

"  This  must  be  he !"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

He  was  not  mistaken.  The  crowd  was  hushed.  The 
stillness,  after  those  clamors  which  preceded  it,  was  awful ; 
but  was  it  not  encouraging  ?  No  such  stillness  had  accom 
panied  the  torrent-rushing  of  those  beldame  ideas  and  bull 
dog  words  which  had  come  from  the  previous  speaker 
Here  was  attention  —  curiosity  —  the  natural  curiosity  of  at 
audience  about  to  listen  to  a  new  speaker,  and  already 
favorably  impressed  by  his  manner  and  appearance. 

Both  were  pleasing  and  impressive.  In  person  he  was 
tall  and  well  made  —  his  features  denoted  one  still  in  the 
green  and  gristle  of  his  youth — not  more  than  twenty-five 
summers  had  darkened  into  brown  the  light  flaxen  hair 
upon  his  forehead.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  clear,  but 
there  was  a  grave  sweetness,  or  rather  a  sweet,  mild  gravity 
in  his  face,  which  seemed  the  effect  of  some  severe  disap 
pointment  or  sorrow. 

This,  without  impairing  youth,  had  imparted  dignity. 
His  manner  was  unostentatious  and  natural,  but  very  grace 
ful.  He  bowed  when  he  first  rose  before  the  assembly, 
then,  for  a  few  moments,  remained  silent,  while  his  eye 
seemed  to  explore  the  whole  of  that  moral  circuit  which 
his  thoughts  were  to  penetrate. 


176  BEAUCHAMPE. 

lie  began,  and  Beauchampe  was  now  all  attention.  His 
voice  was  at  first  very  low,  but  very  clear  and  distinct. 
JJis  exordium  consisted  of  some  general  principles  which 
the  subjects  he  proposed  to  discuss  were  intended  to  illus 
trate,  to  confirm,  and  at  the  same  time  to  receive  their  own 
illustration,  by  the  application  of  the  same  maxims. 

In  all  this  there  was  an  ease  of  utterance,  a  familiarity 
with  all  the  forms  of  analysis,  a  readiness  in  moral  con 
jecture,  a  freedom  of  comparison,  a  promptness  of  sugges 
tion,  which  betrayed  a  mind  not  only  excellent  by  nature, 
but  admirably  drilled  by  the  severest  exercise  of  will 
and  art. 

We  do  not  care  to  note  his  arguments,  or  the  particular 
subjects  which  they  were  intended  to  elucidate.  These 
were  purely  local  in  their  character,  and  were  nowise  re 
markable,  excepting  as,  in  their  employment,  the  speaker 
showed  himself  everywhere  capable  of  rising  to  the  height 
of  those  principles  by  which  the  subject  was  governed.  This 
habit  of  mind  enabled  him  to  simplify  his  topic  to  the  un 
derstanding  of  his  audience  ;  to  disentangle  the  mysteries 
which  the  dull  brains  and  rabid  tongue  of  the  previous 
speaker  had  involved  in  a  seemingly  inextricable  mass  ;  and 
to  unveil,  feature  by  feature,  the  perfect  image  of  that  lead 
ing  idea  which  he  had  set  out  to  establish. 

In  showing  that  Mr.  Calvcrt  argued  his  case,  it  is  not  to 
be  understood,  however,  that  he  was  merely  argumentative. 
The  main  points  of  difficulty  discussed,  he  rose,  as  he  pro 
ceeded,  into  occasional  flights  of  eloquence,  which  told  with 
the  more  effect,  as  they  were  made  purely  subordinate  to 
the  business  of  his  speech.  Beauchampe  discovered,  with 
wonder  and  admiration,  the  happy  art  which  had  so  ar 
ranged  it ;  and  from  wonder  and  admiration  he  sank  to 
apprehension,  when,  considering  the  equal  skill  of  the  de 
bater  and  the  beauty  of  his  declamation,  he  all  at  once  rec 
ollected,  toward  the  close,  that  it  was  allotted  to  him  tc 
take  up  the  cudgels  and  maintain  the  conflict  for  his  friend. 


STUMP    PATRIOTS.  177 

But  this  was  not  a  moment  to  feel  fear.  Bcauchumpe 
was  a  man  of  courage.  His  talent  was  active,  his  mood 
fiery,  his  imagination  very  prompt  and  energetic.  He,  too, 
was  meant  to  be  an  orator ;  but  he  had  gone  through  no 
such  school  of  preparation  as  that  of  the  man  whom  he  was 
to  answer.  But  this  did  not  discourage  him.  If  he  lacked 
the  exquisite  finish  of  manner,  and  the  logical  relation  of 
part  with  part,  which  distinguished  the  address  of  his  oppo 
nent,  he  had  an  irresistible  impulse  of  expression.  Easily 
excited  himself,  lie  found  little  difficulty  in  exciting  those 
whom  he  addressed.  If  Calvert  was  the  noble  steed  of  the 
middle  ages,  caparisoned  in  chain-armor,  and  practised  to 
wheel,  and  bound,  and  rear,  and  recoil,  as  the  necessities 
of  the  fight  required  —  then  was  Beauchampe  the  light  Ara 
bian  courser,  who,  if  he  may  not  combat  on  equal  terms 
with  Ins  opponent,  at  least,  by  his  agility  and  unremitting 
attack,  keeps  him  busy  at  all  points  in  the  work  of  defence. 
If  he  gives  himself  no  repose,  lie  leaves  his  enemy  none. 
Now  here,  now  there,  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  lie 
fatigues  Ins  heavily-armed  foe  by  the  frequency  of  his  evo 
lutions —  he  himself  being  less  encumbered  by  weight  and 
armor,  and  being  at  the  same  time  more  easily  refreshed 
for  a  renewal  of  the  fight. 

Such  was  the  nature  of  their  combat  which  lasted,  at  in 
tervals,  throughout  the  day.  Beauchampe  had  made  Ids 
debut  with  considerable  eclat.  II is  heart  was  bounding 
with  the  excitement  of  the  conflict.  The  friends  of  Colonel 
Sharpe  were  in  ccstacies.  They  had  been  dashed  by  the 
superior  eloquence  of  the  new  assailant.  They  feared  and 
felt  the  impression  which  Calvert  had  made ;  and,  expect 
ing  nothing  from  so  young  a  beginner  as  Beauchampe,  they 
naturally  exaggerated  the  character  of  his  speech,  when 
they  found  it  so  far  to  exceed  their  expectations.  The 
compliments  which  he  received  were  not  confined  to  the 
friends  of  Colonel  Sharpe.  The  opposition  confessed  his 
excellence,  and  Calvert  himself  was  the  first,  when  it  wa« 


178  BEAUCHAMPE. 

over,  to  come  forward,  make  the  acquaintance,  and  offer  his 
congratulations. 

Colonel  Sharpe  arrived  that  night.  As  soon  as  this  fact 
was  ascertained,  Beauchampe  prepared  to  return  home. 
Sharpe  had  brought  with  him  two  friends,  both  lawyers, 
men  of  some  parts,  who  rendered  any  further  assistance 
from  our  young  husband  unnecessary.  The  resolution  of 
the  new  bridegroom  so  soon  to  leave  the  field,  provoked 
the  merriment  of  the  veterans. 

"  And  so  you  are  really  married  V  And  what  sort  of  a 
wife  have  you  got,  Beauchampe  ?"  demanded  Sharpe. 

"  You  can  readily  guess,"  said  Barnabas,  "  when  you  find 
him  so  eager  to  get  home  without  waiting  to  see  the  end 
of  the  business  here." 

44  Is  she  young  and  handsome,  Beauchampe  ?" 

"  And  what  arc  her  moral  possessions,  as  defined  by 
Whisker-Ben  ?''  was  the  demand  of  Barnabas. 

The  tone  of  these  remarks,  and  inquiries  was  excessively 
annoying  to  Beauchampe.  There  was  something  like  gross 
irreverence  in  it.  It  seemed  as  if  his  sensibilities  suffered 
a  stab  with  every  syllable  which  he  was  called  upon  to 
answer.  Besides,  it  was  only  when  examined  in  reference 
to  the  age,  appearance  and  name  of  his  wife,  that  he  be 
came  vividly  impressed  with  the  painful  consciousness  of 
what  must  be  concealed  in  her  history.  The  burning  blush 
on  his  cheeks,  when  he  replied  to  his  companions,  only 
served  to  subject  his  unnecessary  modesty  to  the  usual  sar 
casms  which  are  common  in  such  cases. 

44  And  you  will  go  ?"   said  Sharpe. 

44 1  promised  my  wife  to  return  as  soon  as  you  came,  and 
she  will  expect  me." 

44 1  must  see  that  wife  of  yours  who  has  so  much  power 
over  you.  Is  she  so  very  handsome,  Beauchampe  ?" 

44 /think  so." 

44  And  what  did  you  say  was  her  name  before  marriage  ?" 
was  the  further  inquiry. 


STUMP    PATRIOTS.  179 

He  was  answered,  though  with  some  hesitation. 

"  Cooke,  Cooke  !  You  say  in  your  letter  that  she's  won 
derfully  smart !  But,  Barnabas,  we  must  judge  for  our 
selves,  both  the  beauty  and  the  wit.  Hey,  boy !  are  wo 
not  a  committee  on  that  subject  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  we  arq —  for  that  matter,  Beauchampe  could 
only  marry  with  our  consent.  He  will  have  to  be  very 
civil  in  showing  us  the  lady,  to  persuade  us  to  sanction  this 
premature  affair." 

"  Do  you  hear,  Beauchampe  ?" 

u  I  do  not  fear.  When  you  have  seen  her,  the  consent 
will  not  be  withheld,  I'm  sure." 

"  You  believe  in  your  princess,  then  ?" 

"Fervently!" 

"  You  are  very  young,  Beauchampe  —  very  young!  But 
we  were  all  young,  Barnabas,  and  have  paid  the  penalties 
of  youth.  An  age  of  unbelief  for  a  youth  of  faith.  Thirty 
years  of  skepticism"  for  some  three  months'  intoxication. 
But  how  soon  that  gristle  of  credulity  hardens  into  callous 
ness  !  How  long  do  you  give  Beauchampe  before  he  gains 
his  freedom  ?" 

"  That,"  said  Barnabas,  "  will  depend  very  much  on 
how  much  lie  sees  of  wife,  children,  and  friends.  If  he 
were  now  to  set  off  alone  and  take  a  voyage  to  Canton,  the 
probability  is  he  would  be  quite  as  much  a  victim  until  he 
got  back.  Three  weeks  at  home  would  probably  give  him 
a  more  decided  taste  for  the  Canton  voyage,  and  he  would 
take  a  second,  and  stay  abroad  longer.  Beyond  that  there 
is  no  need  to  look  ;  the  story  always  ends  in  the  same  way. 
I  never  knew  a  talc  which  had  so  little  variety." 

There  was  more  of  this  dialogue  which  we  do  not  care  to 
record.  The  moral  atmosphere  was  not  grateful  to  the 
tastes  of  the  young  man.  Sharpc  saw  that,  and  changed 
the  subject. 

"  You  have  made  good  fight  to-day  —  so  they  tell  me.  I 
knew  you  would.  But  you  .should  keep  it  up.  Take  my 


1°';  BEAUCHAMPE. 

word,  another  day  here  would  be  the  making  of  you.    One 
speech  proves  nothing  if  it  produces  no  more." 

"  I  shall  only  be  in  the  way,"  said  Beauchampe.  "  You 
have  Barnabas  and  Mercer." 

"  Good  men  and  true,  but  the  more  the  merrier.  How 
know  I  whom  the  opposition  will  bring  into  the  field  ?" 

"  They  will  scarcely  get  one  superior  to  Calvert." 

"  So,  you  like  him  then  ?" 

"  I  do — very  niTich.     He  will  give  you  a  hard  light.1' 

"Will  he.  then?'1  said  Colonel  Sharpe,  with  some  ap 
pearance  of  pique ;  "well!  we  shall  see  —  Heaven  send 
the  hour  as  soon  as  may  be." 

"  Be  wary,"  said  Beauchampe,  "  for  I  assure  you  he  is  a 
perfect  master  of  his  weapon.  I  have  seldom  even  fancied 
a  more  adroit  or  able  speaker." 

"  Do  1  not  tell  you  you  are  young,  Beauchampe  ?" 

"  Young  or  old,  take  my  counsel  as  a  matter  of  prudence, 
arid  be  wary.  He  will  certainly  prove  to  you  the  necessity 
of  looking  through  your  armory." 

"  By  my  faith  but  I  should  like  to  see  this  champion  who 
has  so  intoxicated  you.  You  have  made  me  curious,  and 
I  must  see  him  to-night.  Where  does  he  lodge  ?" 

"  At  the  Red  Heifer." 

"  Shall  we  go  to  him,  or  send  for  him  ?  What  say  you, 
Barnabas  ?" 

"  Oh,  go  to  him,  be  sure.  It  will  have  a  good  effect.  It 
will  show  as  if  you  were  not  proud." 

"  And  did  not  fear  him  !  Come,  Beauchampe,  if  you  will 
not  stay  and  do  battle  for  us  any  longer,  pen  a  billet  of  in 
troduction  to  this  famous  orator.  Say  to  him,  that  your 
friends,  Messieurs  Sharpe  and  Barnabas,  of  whom  you  may 
lay  the  prettiest  things  with  safety,  will  come  over  this 
evening  to  test  the  hospitality  of  the  Red  Heifer.  Be  sure 
to  state  that  it  is  your  new  wife  that  hurries  you  off,  or  the 
conceited  fellow  may  fancy  that  he  has  made  you  sick  with 
his  drubbing.  Ho!  Sutton  —  landlord!  what  ho  !  there!" 


STUMP   PATRIOTS.  181 

The  person  summoned  made  his  appearance. 

"  Ha !  Sutton  !  How  are  you,  my  old  boy  ? — havVt  seen 
you  since  the  last  flood  —  and  what's  to  be  done  down  here  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Is  it  court  or  country  party 
here  —  Tompkins  or  Desha  ?" 

"  Well,  kurnel,  there's  no  telling  to  a  certainty,  till  the 
votes  is  in  the  box  and  counted ;  but  I  reckon  all  goes 
right,  jist  now,  as  you'd  like  to  find  it." 

u  Very  good —  and  you  think  Beauchampe  did  well  to 
day?" 

u  Mighty  onexpected  well.  He'll  be  a  screamer  yet,  1 
tell  you." 

"  There's  a  promise  of  fame  for  you,  Beauchampe,  which 
ouulit  to  make  you  stay  a  day  longer.  Think  now  of  be 
coming  a  screamer  !  You  said  a  screamer,  Sutton,  old  fel 
low,  didn't  you?" 

"  Screamer's  the  word,  kurnel ;  and  'twon't  be  much 
wanting  to  make  him  one.  lie  did  talk  the  boldest  now, 
I  tell  you,  corisiderin'  what  he  had  to  work  ag'in." 

"  What!  is  this  Mr.  Calvert  a  screamer  too  ?" 

"  Raal  grit,  kurnel  —  no  mistake.     Talks  like  a  book." 

"  And  so,  I  suppose,'*  said  Sliarpc,  in  the  manner  of  a 
man  who  knows  his  strength  and  expects  it  to  be  acknowl 
edged,  "  and  so  I  suppose  you  look  for  me  to  come  out  in 
all  my  strength  ?  You  will  require  me  to  talk  like  two 
books  ?" 

u  Jist  so,  kurnel,  the  people's  a-looking  for  it ;  and 
an  even  bet  with  some,  that  you  can't  do  better  than 
strange  chap,  Calvert." 

«'  But  there  are  enough  to  take  up  such  a  bet  ?    Are  th 
not,  old  fellow  ?" 

"  Well,  I  reckon  there  are ;  but  you  know  how  a  nag  has 
to  work  when  the  odds  arc  even." 

"Ay,  ay!  We  must  see  this  fellow,  that's  clear*  We 
must  measure  his  height,  breadth,  and  strength,  beforehand. 


182  BEAUCHAMPE. 

No  harm  to  look  at  any  one's  enemy  the  night  before  fight 
ing  him,  Sutton,  is  there  ?" 

"  None  in  natur',  kurnel.  It's  a  sort  o'  right  one  has  to 
feel  the  heft  of  the  chap  that  wants  to  fling  him." 

"  Even  so,  old  boy  —  so  get  us  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
here,  while  Beauchampe  writes  him  a  sort  of  friendly  chal 
lenge.  I  say,  Sutton,  the  Red  Heifer  is  against  us,  is 
she  ?" 

"  I  reckon  it's  the  Red  Heifer's  husband,  kurnel,"  said 
the  landlord,  as  he  placed  the  writing  materials.  "  If  'twas 
the  Red  Heifer  herself,  I'm  thinking  the  vote  would  be  clear 
t'other  way." 

"  Ha !  ha !  you  wicked  dog  !"  exclaimed  Sharpe,  with  a 
chuckle  of  perfect  self-complacence ;  "  I  see  you  do  not 
easily  forget  old  times." 

"No,  no,  kurnel !  —  a  good  recollection  of  old  times  is  a 
sort  of  Christian  duty :  it  sort  o'  keeps  a  man  in  memory 
of  friends  and  inirnies." 

"  But  the  Red  Heifer  was  neither  friend  nor  enemy  of 
yours,  Sutton  ?" 

"  No,  kurnel,  but  the  Heifer's  husband  had  a  notion  that 
'tworn't  any  fault  of  mine  that  she  worn't." 

"  Ah,  you  sad  dog!1'  said  Sharpe,  flatteringly. 

"  A  leetle  like  my  customers,  kurnel,"  responded  the 
landlord,  with  a  knowing  leer. 

"  I  would  I  could  see  her,  though  for  a  minute  only.' 

"  That's  pretty  onpossible.  He's  strict  enough  upon  her 
now-a-days ;  never  lets  her  out  of  sight,  and  watches  every 
eye  that  looks  to  her  part  of  the  house.  He'd  be  mighty 
suspicious  of  you,  if  you  went  there." 

"  But  he  has  no  cause,  Sutton !" 

"  Well,  you  say  so,  kurnel,  and  I'm  not  the  man  to  say 
otherwise ;  but  lie  thinks  very  different,  I  can  tell  you. 
He  ain't  the  man  to  show  his  teetli ;  but,  mark  me,  his  eye 
won't  leave  you  from  the  time  you  come,  to  the  time  you 
quit," 


STUMP    PATRIOTS.  183 

"  We'll  note  him,  Sutton.     Ready,  Beauchampe  ?" 

The  youth  answered  by  handing  the  note  to  the  landlord, 
by  whom  it  was  instantly  despatched  according  to  its  direc 
tion.  A  few  moments  only  had  elapsed,  when  an  answer 
was  received,  acknowledging  the  compliment,  and  request 
ing  to  see  the  friends  of  Mr.  Bcauchampe  at  their  earliest 
leisure. 

"  This  is  well,"  said  Sharpe.  "  1  confess  my  impatience 
to  behold  this  formidable  antagonist.  Bestir  yourself,  Bar 
nabas,  with  that  toddy,  over  which  you  seem  to  have  been 
saying  the  devil's  prayers  for  the  last  half-hour !  Be  sure 
and  bring  a  hatful  of  your  cigars  along  with  you.  The 
Red  Heifer,  I  suspect,  will  yield  us  nothing  half  so  good. 
Ho,  Beauchampe!  are  you  sleeping?" 

A  slap  on  the  shoulder  aroused  Bcauchampe  from  some 
thing  like  a  waking  dream,  and  he  started  to  his  feet  with 
a  bewildered  look.  lie  had  been  thinking  of  his  wife,  and 
of  the  cruel  portions  of  her  strange  history  —  to  which,  as 
by  an  inevitable  impulse,  the  equivocal  dialogue  between 
Sharpe  and  the  landlord  seemed  to  carry  him  back. 

"Dreaming  of  your  wife,  no  doubt!  Ha!  ha!  —  Beau 
champe,  how  long  will  you  be  a  boy  ?" 

Why  did  these  words  annoy  Beauchampe  ?  Was  there 
anything  sinister  in  their  signification  ?  Why  did  those 
tones  of  his  friend's  voice  send  a  shudder  through  the 
youth's  veins  ?  Had  he  also  his  presentiments  ?  We  shall 
see.  At  all  events,  his  dream,  whatever  may  have  been  it3 
character,  was  thoroughly  broken.  He  turned  to  the  land 
lord,  and  ordered  his  horse  to  be  got  instantly. 

"  You  will  go,  then  ?"  said  Sharpe. 

"  Yes ;  you  do  not  need  me  any  longer." 

"  You  are  resolved,  then,  not  to  be  a  screamer !  What 
a  perverse  nature  !  Here  is  Fame,  singing  like  the  ducks 
of  Mrs.  Bond,  '  Come  and  catch  me'  —  and  d — 1  a  bit  he 
stirs  for  all  their  invitation  !  But  he's  young,  Barnabas, 
and  has  a  young  wife  not  five  weeks  old.  Wre  must  be 


184  BEAUCHAMPE. 

indulgent,  Barnabas.  We  must  not  be  too  strict  in  our 
examination." 

"  We  were  young  ourselves  once,"  said  Barnabas,  kindly 
looking  to  Beauchampe. 

"  But  do  not  be  precipitate,  old  fellow.  Though  merci 
fully  inclined,  it  must  be  real  beauty,  and  genuine  wit, 
that  shall  save  our  brother.  Our  certificate  will  depend 
on  that.  Beauchampe,  look  to  see  us  to  dinner  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  I  shall  expect  you,"  said  Beauchampe,  faintly,  as,  bid 
ding  them  farewell,  he  left  the  room. 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  poor  fellow !"  said  Sharpe.  "  His  treas 
ures  make  him  sad.  He  is  just  now  as  anxious  and  appre 
hensive  as  an  old  miser  of  seventy." 

"  Egad,  he  little  dreams,  just  now,  how  valuable  the 
club  will  be  to  him  a  few  months  hence,"  said  Barna 
bas. 

"  Everything  to  him.  Let  us  drink  *  The  club,'  Barna 
bas."  And  they  filled,  and  bowed  to  each  other,  hob-a- 
nob. 

"  The  club !" 

"  The  pope  !" 

"  And  the  pope's  wife  !" 

"  No  go,  that !"  said  Sharpe.  "  Antiques  are  masculine 
only.  She's  dead  to  us  ;  she's  too  old." 

"  What  say  you  to  this  wife  of  Beauchampe,  then  ?" 

"  We  won't  drink  her  until  we  see  her ;  though  I  rather 
suspect  she  must  be  pretty,  for  he  has  an  eye  in  his  head. 

But  what  a  d d  fool  to  leap  so  hurriedly,  without  once 

looking  after  the  consideration  !  That  was  a  woful  error  ! 

—  only  to  be  excused  by  her  superexcellence.     We  shall 
see  in  season ;  though,  curse  me,  if  I  do  not  fancy  he'd 
rather  see  the  devil  than  either  of  us  !     He's  jealous  al 
ready.     Did  you  observe  how  faintly  he  said,  ;  Good-night' 

—  and  how  coldly  he  gave  his  invitation  ?     But  we'll  like 
Uis  wife   the  better   for    it,   Barnabas.      '  When  the   hus- 


STUMP   PATRIOTS.  186 

band's  jealous,  the  wife's  fair  game.'  Thus  saith  the 
proverb." 

"  And  a  wholesome  one!  But-  did  we  drink?  I'm 
not  sure  that  we  have  not  forgotten  it." 

And  the  speaker  explored  the  bottom  of  the  pitcher,  and 
knew  not  exactly  which  had  deceived  him,  his  memory  or 
his  palate. 


186 


CHAPTER   XV11. 

THE  SAGE   AND    HIS   PUPIL. 

IN  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  Red  Heifer,  wo  per 
sons  were  sitting  about  this  time.  One  of  these  was  the 
orator  whose  successes  that  day  had  beec  the  theme  of 
every  tongue.  The  other  was  a  man  well  stricken  in 
years,  of  commanding  form,  and  venerable  and  intellec 
tual  aspect.  His  hair  was  long  and  white,  while  his 
cheeks  were  yet  smooth  and  even  rosy,  as  if  they  spoke 
for  a  well-satisfied  conscience  and  gentle  heart  in  their 
proprietor. 

The  eyes  of  the  old  man  were  settled  upon  the  young 
one.  There  was  a  paternal  exultation  in  their  glance, 
which  sufficiently  declared  the  interest  which  he  felt  in 
the  fortunes  and  triumphs  of  his  companion.  The  eyes 
of  the  youth  were  fixed  with  something  of  inquiry  upon 
the  note  of  Beauchampc,  which  he  still  turned  with  his 
fingers.  There  was  something  of  doubt  and  misgiving  in 
the  expression  of  his  face ;  which  his  companion  noted,  to 
ask : — 

"  Is  there  nothing  in  that  note,  William,  besides  what 
you  have  read  ?  It  seems  to  disturb  you." 

"  Nothing,  sir  ;  nor  can  I  say  that  it  disturbs  me  exactly. 
Perhaps  every  young  beginner  feels  the  same  disquieting 
sort  of  excitement  when  he  is  about  to  meet  his  antagonist 
for  the  first  time.  You  are  aware,  sir,  that  this  gentleman, 
Colonel  Sharpc,  is  the  Coryphaeus  of  the  opposition.  He 


THE   SAGE    AND    HIS   PUPIL.  187 

is  the  right-hand  man  of  Desha,  and  has  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  and  most  popular  orators 
in  the  state." 

"  You  need  not  fear  him,  my  son,"  said  the  elder ;  "  I 
am.  now  sure  of  your  strength.  You  will  not  fail — you 
can  not.  You  have  your  mind  at  the  control  of  your  will ; 
and  it  needs  only  that  you  should  go  and  be  sure  of  oppo 
sition.  Had  that  power  but  been  mine — but  it  is  useless 
now !  I  enjoy  my  own  hoped-for  triumphs  in  the  certain 
ties  of  yours." 

"  So  far,  sir,  as  the  will  enables  us  to  prove  what  we 
are,  and  have  in  us,  so  far  I  think  I  may  rely  upon  myself. 
But  the  mere  will  to  perform  is  not  always  —  perhaps  not 
often — the  power.  This  man  Sharpe  brings  into  the  field 
more  than  ordinary  talents.  Hitherto,  with  the  exception 
of  this  young  man  Beauchampe,  all  my  opponents  have 
been  very  feeble  men  —  mere  dealers  in  rhodomontade  of 
a  very  commonplace  sort.  Beauchampe,  who  is  said  to 
have  been  a  pupil  of  Colonel  Sharpe,  was  merely  put  for 
ward  to-day  to  speak  against  time.  This  fact  alone  shows 
the  moderate  estimate  which  they  put  upon  his  abilities : 
and  yet  what  a  surprising  effect  his  speech  produced  — 
what  excitement,  what  enthusiasm !  Besides,  it  was  evi 
dently  unpremeditated  ;  for  it  was,  throughout,  an  answer 
to  mine." 

u  But  it  was  no  answer :  it  was  mere  declamation." 

u  So  it  was,  sir ;  but  it  was  declamation  that  sounded 
very  much  like  argument,  and  had  the  effect  of  argument. 
It  is  no  small  proof  of  a  speaker's  ability,  when  he  can 
enter  without  premeditation  upon  a  subject — a  subject,  too, 
which  is  decidedly  against  him  —  and  so  discuss  it — so 
suppress  the  unfavorable  and  so  emphasize  the  favorable 
parts  of  his  cause — as  to  produce  such'  an  impression. 
Now,  if  this  be  the  pupil  of  Colonel  Sharpe,  and  so  little 
esteemed  as  to  be  used  simply  to  gain  time,  what  have  we 
to  expect,  what  to  fear,  from  the  presence  of  the  master?" 


188  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Fear  nothing,  "William  !  nay,  whatever  you  may  say 
here,  in  cool  deliberate  moments,  you  can  not  fear  when 
you  are  there  !  That  I  know.  When  you  stand  before  the 
people,  and  every  voice  is  hushed  in  expectation,  a  differ 
ent  spirit  takes  possession  of  your  bosom.  Nothing  then 
can  daunt  you.  I  have  seen  the  proofs  too  often  of  what  I 
say ;  and  I  now  tell  you  that  it  is  in  your  power  tc  handle 
this  Colonel  Sharpe  with  quite  as  much  ease  and  success 
as  you  have  handled  all  the  rest.  Do  not  brood  upon  it 
with  such  a  mind,  my  son  —  do  not  encourage  these  doubts. 
To  be  an  orator  you  must  no  more  be  liable  to  fear  than  a 
soldier  going  into  battle." 

"  Somehow,  sir,  there  are  certain  names  which  disturb 
me  —  I  have  met  with  men  whose  looks  had  the  same  effect. 
They  seem  to  exercise  the  power  of  "a  spell  upon  my  mind 
and  frame." 

"But  you  burst  from  it?" 

"  Yes,  but  with  great  effort." 

"  It  matters  nothing.  The  difficulty  is  easily  accounted 
for,  as  well  as  the  spell  by  which  you  were  bound.  That 
spell  is  in  your  own  ardency  of  imagination.  Persons  of 
your  temperament,  for  ever  on  the  leap,  are  for  ever  liable 
to  recoil.  Have  you  never  advanced  impetuously  to  grasp 
the  hand  of  one  who  has  been  named  to  you,  and  then  al 
most  shrunk  away  from  his  grasp,  as  soon  as  you  have  be 
held  his  face  ?  He  was  a  phlegmatic,  perhaps  ;  and  your 
warm  nature  recoiled  with  a  feeling  of  natural  antipathy 
from  the  repelling  coldness  of  his.  The  man  who  pours 
forth  his  feelings  under  enthusiastic  impulses  is  particularly 
liable  to  this  frigid  influence.  A  deliberate  matter-of-fact 
question,  at  such  a  moment — the  simplification  into  baldness 
of  the  subject  of  his  own  inquiry,  by  the  lips  of  a  cynic  — 
will  quench  his  ardor,  and  make  him  shrink  within  his  shell, 
as  a  spirit  of  good  may  be  supposed  to  recoil  from  the  ap 
proach  of  a  spirit  of  evil.  Now,  you  have  just  enough  of 
this  enthusiasm  to  be  sensible  ordinarily  to  this  influence. 


THE    SAGE    AND    HIS    PUPIL.  189 

You.  acknowledged  it  only  on  ordinary  occasions,  however 
At  first,  I  feared  its  general  effect  upon  you.  I  dreaded 
lest  it  should  enfeeble  you ;  but  I  soon  discovered  that  you 
had  a  will,  which,  in  the  moment  of  necessity,  could  over 
come  it  quite.  As  I  said  before,  when  you  are  once  before 
the  crowd,  and  ihey  wait  in  silence  for  your  utterance,  you 
arc  wholly  a  man!  I  have  no  fears  for  you,  William  —  I 
believe  in  no  spells  —  none,  at  least,  which  need  to  trouble 
you.  I  know  that  you  have  no  reason  to  fear,  and  I  know 
that  you  will  not  fear  when  the  time  comes.  Let  me  pre 
dict  for  you  a  more  complete  triumph  to-morrow  than  any 
which  has  happened  yet.'* 

"  You  overrate  me,  sir.  All  I  shall  endeavor  to  do  will 
be  to  keep  what  ground-  I  may  have  already  won.  I  must 
not  hope  to  make  any  new  conquests  in  the  teeth  of  so 
able  a  foe." 

"That  is  enough.  To  maintain  your  conquests  is  the 
next  thing  to  making  them ;  and  is  usually  a  conquest  by 
itself.  But  you  will  do  more — you  can  not  help  it.  You 
have  the  argument  with  you,  and  that  is  half  the  battle. 
Nay,  it  is  all  the  battle  to  a  mind  so  enthusiastic  as  yours 
in  the  cause  of  truth.  The  truth  confers  a  strange  power 
upon  its  advocate.  Nay,  I  believe  it  is  from  the  truth  alone 
that  we  gather  the  last  best  powers  of  eloquence.  I  believe 
in  the  realness  of  no  eloquence  unless  it  comes  from  the 
sincerity  of  the  orator.  To  rrake  me  believe,  the  speaker 
must  himself  believe." 

"  Or  seem  to  do  so." 

"  I  think  I  should  detect  the  seeming.  Nay,  after  a  little 
while,  the  people  themselves  detect  it,  and  the  orator  sinks 
accordingly.  This  is  the  fate  of  many  of  our  men  who 
begin  popularly.  With  politics,  for  a  profession,  no  man 
can  be  honest  or  consistent  long.  He  must  soon  trade  on 
borrowed  capital.  He  soon  deals  in  assignats  and  false 
papers.  He  endorses  the  paper  of  other  men,  sooner  than 
not  issue ;  and  in  doing  business  at  all  hazards,  ho  soon 


190  BEATJCHAMPE. 

incurs  the  last — bankruptcy!  Political  bankruptcy  is  of 
all  sorts  the  worst.  There  is  some  chance  of  regaining 
caste,  where  it  is  lost  by  dishonesty  —  but  never  where  it 
follows  from  a  blunder.  The  knave  is  certainly  one  thing, 
but  the  blunderer  may  be  both.  The  fool  and  knave  united 
are  incorrigible.  Sucli  a  combination  is  too  monstrous  for 
popular  patience.  And  how  many  do  we  see  of  this  de 
scription.  I  do  not  think  there  is  in  any  profession  under 
the  sun  such  numerous  examples  of  this  combination.  Every 
day  shows  us  persons  who  toil  for  power  and  place  with 
principles  sufficiently  flexible  to  suit  any  condition  of  things; 
and  yet  they  fail,  and  expose  themselves.  This  is  the  won 
der —  that,  unfettered  as  they  make  themselves  at  the  be 
ginning,  they  should  still  become  bondsmen,  and  so,  con 
vict  !  They  seem  to  lack  only  one  faculty  of  the  knave  — 
and  that  the  most  necessary  —  art." 

"  Their  very  rejection  of  law  enslaves  them.  That  is 
the  reason.  They  set  out  in  a  chain,  which  increases  with 
every  movement — which  seems  momently  to  multiply  its 
own  links  and  hourly  increase  its  weight.  Falsehood  is 
such  a  chain.  You  can  not  convict  a  true  man,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  his  feet  are  unimpeded  from  the  first. 
A  step  in  error  is  a  step  backward,  which  requires  two  for 
ward  before  you  can  regain  what  is  lost.  How  few  have 
the  courage  for  this.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  keep  on — so 
difficult  to  turn!  This  chain  —  the  heavy  weight  which 
error  is  for  ever  doomed  to  carry  —  produces  a  stiffness  of 
the  limbs  —  a  monstrous  awkwardness  —  an  inflexibility, 
which  exposes  its  burdens  whenever  it  is  checked,  com 
pelled  to  leap  aside,  or  attempt  any  sudden  change  of  move 
ment.  This  was  the  great  difficulty  of  this  young  man, 
Beauchampe,  in  the  discussion  to-day :  he  scarcely  knew 
it  himself,  because,  to  a  young  man  of  ingenuity,  the  diffi 
culties  of  the  argument  on  the  wrong  side,  are  themselves 
provocations  to  error.  By  exercising  ingenuity,  they  appeal 
flatteringly  to  one's  sense,  of  talent ;  and,  in  proportion  aa 


THE   SAGE    AND    HTS    PUPIL.  191 

he  may  succeed  in  plausibly  relieving  himself  from  these 
difficulties  of  the  subject,  in  the  same  proportion  will  he 
gradually  identify  himself  with  the  side  he  now  espouses. 
His  mind  will  gradually  adopt  the  point  of  view  to  which 
its  own  subtleties  conduct  it;  and,  in  this  way  will  it  be 
come  fettered,  possibly  to  the  latest  moment  of  his  existence. 
There  is  nothing  more  important  to  the  popular  orator  than 
to  have  Truth  for  his  ally  when  lie  first  takes  the  field. 
Success,  under  such  auspices,  will  commend  her  to  his  love, 
and  the  bias,  once  established,  his  faith  is  perpetual." 

"  True,  William,  but  you  would  make  this  alliance  acci 
dental.  It  must  be  the  result  of  choice  to  be  worth  any 
thing.  We  must  love  Truth,  and  seek  her,  or  she  does  not 
become  our  ally." 

"  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  convince  our  young  beginners 
everywhere,  not  only  that  Truth  is  the  best  ally,  but  the 
only  one  that,  in  the  long  run,  can  possibly  conduct  us  to 
permanent  success." 

"  This  is  not  so  -much  the  point,  I  think,  as  to  enable 
them  to  detect  the  true  from  the  false.  Very  few  young 
men  are  able  to  do  this  before  thirty.  Hence  the  error  of 
forcing  them  into  public  life  before  that  period.  You  will 
seldom  meet  with  a  very  young  person  who  will  deliber 
ately  choose  the  false  in  preference  to  the  true,  from  a  sel 
fish  motive.  They  are  beguiled  into  error  by  those  who 
are  older.  Ife  is  precisely  in  politics  as  in  morals.  The 
unsuspecting  youth,  through  the  management  of  some  cold, 
cunning  debauchee,  into  whose  hands  he  falls,  finds  himself 
in  the  embrace  of  a  harlot,  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
most  dreams  of  beatific  love.  The  inner  nature,  not  yet 
practised  to  defend  itself,  becomes  the  prey  of  the  outer ; 
and  strong  indeed  must  be  native  energies  which  can  finally 
recover  the  lost  ground,  and  expel  the  invader  from  his 
place  of  vantage." 

"The  case  is  shown  in  that  of  this  young  man,  Beau- 
champe.  It  is  evidently  a  matter  of  no  moment  to  him  on 


192  BEAUCHAMPE. 

which  side  he  enlists  himself  just  now.  There  i?  no  truth 
involved  in  it,  to  his  eyes.  It  is  a  game  of  skill  carried 
on  between  two  parties ;  and  his  choice  is  determined  sim 
ply  by  that  with  which  he  has  been  familiar.  He  is  used 
by  Sharpc,  who  is  an  older  man,  and  possessed  of  more  ex 
perience,  to  promote  an  end.  .  He  little  dreams  that,  in 
doing  so,  he  is  incurring  a  moral  obligation  to  maintain  the 
Game  conflict  through  his  whole  career." 


THE    MEETING    OF   Ttn*    WATERS — AN    EXPLOSION'.       1 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    MEETING    OP   THE   WATERS  —  AN   EXPLOSION. 

AT  this  stage  of  the  conversation,  the  two  companions 
were  interrupted  by  the  sudden  entrance  of  a  sly-looking 
little  deformity  of  a  man,  the  landlord  of  the  Red  Heifer, 
who,  in  somewhat  stately  accents,  announced  the  approach 
of  Colonel  Sharpe  and  his  friend  Mr.  Barnabas.  The  two 
gentlemen  rose  promptly,  expressed  their  pleasure  at  the 
annunciation,  and  begged  Uic  landlord  to  introduce  the 
visiters. 

In  a  few  moments  this  was  done,  though  it  was  found 
that  they  were  not  the  only  guests.  They  were  followed 
closely  by  a  group  of  ten  or  a  dozen  substantial  yeomen  of 
the  neighborhood — -persons  who  never  dreamed,  in  the  un 
sophisticated  region  of  our  story,  that  they  were  guilty  of 
any  trespass  upon  social  laws  in  thus  pressing  uninvited 
into  a  gentleman's  private  apartments.  Our  simple  repub 
licans  supposed  that,  because  they  had  a  motive,  they  had 
also  a  sufficient  plea  in  justification.  Their  object  was,  to 
be  present  at  the  first  meeting  of  the  rival  candidates, 
when,  they  fancied,  that  there  would  be  a  keen  encounter 
of  wits,  and  such  a  display  of  the  respective  powers  of  the 
opponents  as  would  enable  them  to  form  a  judgment  in  re 
spect  to  the  parties,  for  one  or  other  of  whom  they  would 
be  required  to  cast  their  votes. 

The  intrusion  was  of  a  sort  to  offend  nobody.  The  pub- 

9 


194  BEAUCHAMPE. 

lie  men  were  used  to  such  familiarities,  particularly  at  pub 
lic  hotels  ;  and  the  people  somewhat  presumed  upon  the 
dependence  of  the  candidates  upon  their  support,  which 
would  make  them  quite  careful  neither  to  take  nor  to  give 
offence. 

The  two  gentlemen,  accordingly,  as  the  crowd  made  its 
appearance,  welcomed  all  parties ;  while  the  yeomen,  ran 
ging  themselves  about  the  entrance,  suffered  the  invited 
guests  to  pass  beyond  them  into  the  centre  of  the  room. 

William  Calvert,  our  young  orator,  felt  a  rising  emotion 
at  his  heart,  which  was  not,  as  he  fancied,  exactly  the  re 
sult  of  his  mental  humility.  It  was,  on  the  contrary,  rather 
the  proof  of  a  strong  craving,  an  intense  ambition,  which, 
aiming  at  the  highest,  naturally  felt  some  misgivings  of  its 
own  strength  and  securities  when  about  to  measure,  for  the 
first  time,  with  a  champion  who  was  already  famous.  We 
have  seen  how  these  misgivings  had  troubled  him  in  the 
previous  dialogue,  and  have  heard  how  his  venerable  com 
panion  had  endeavored  to  strengthen  him  against  them. 

The  labor  was  perhaps  an  unnecessary  one.  The  young 
man's  quailing  was  from  his  own  extreme  standards,  rather 
than  from  the  height  and  dimensions  of  his  rival.  But  the 
issue  between  them  was  not  destined  to  be  one  of  intellect, 
and,  in  respect  to  the  keen  encounter  of  the  rival  wits,  our 
yeomen  were  doomed  to  disappointment.  But  there  was  to 
be  a  trial  between  them,  nevertheless,  which  probably  com 
pensated  the  hungering  expectants  for  what  was  withheld. 

The  huge,  beefy  landlord  of  the  opposition  house,  Sutton, 
now  bustled  forward,  having  the  arm  of  Colonel  Sharpe 
within  his  own.  The  little,  deformed  representative  of  the 
Red  Heifer — our  house  —  stationing  himself  beside  Cal 
vert,  confronted  the  rival  landlord  with  an  air  which  ex 
hibited  something  more  of  defiance  than  cordiality.  Very 
bitter,  from  time  immemorial,  had  been  the  feuds  between 
the  two  houses  —  not  so  bloody,  perhaps,  but  quite  as  angry, 
bitter,  and  enduring,  as  those  which  sundered  the  factions 


THE    MEETING    OF   THE    WATERS—    A.N    EXPLOSION.       19t/ 

of  York  and  Lancaster.  Of  course,  the  quarrel  between 
them  being  generally  understood,  the  defiant  demonstra 
tions  of  the  two  commanded  but  little  notice.  All  eyes 
were  rather  addressed  to  the  rival  politicians  who  were 
about  to  meet. 

Mr.  Barnabas,  with  bow  and  smirk,  drew  near  to  the 
elder  Culvert,  who  extended  his  hand  to  him  very  cour 
teously,  received  his  gripe,  and  with  him  turned  to  the 
younger  Calvert,  to  whom  Colonel  Sharpe  was  approaching 
at  the  same  time.  As  the  parties  were  about  to  meet,  the 
colonel,  shaking  off  the  arm  of  his  landlord,  extended  his 
hand  to  the  rival : — 

"  Mr.  Calvert,  I  believe.     I  am  Colonel  Sharpe." 

The  hand  of  William  Calvert  was  extended  to  receive 
that  of  Sharpe,  when  it  wad  suddenly  drawn  back.  The 
light  was  now  streaming  full  on  the  face  of  Sharpe.  In 
that  of  William  Calvert,  the  expression  instantly  became 
one  of  mingled  astonishment  and  loathing.  His  hands  were 
thrown  behind  his  back,  while,  drawing  his  person  up  to 
its  fullest  height,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  voice  of  equal  sur 
prise  and  scorn  — 

"  You,  sir,  Colonel  Sharpe — you!" 

The  effect  was  a  mute  wonder  in  the  circle. 

Sharpe  started,  his  cheek  paling,  his  eye  flashing,  at  the 
unexpected  reception.  The  audience  was  confounded  to 
expecting  silence.  Sharpe  himself  was  so  surprised  as  not 
to  be  able  to  recover  speech  immediately.  He  did,  how 
ever,  in  a  moment  after,  and  said : — 

"  What  is,  this  ?     I  am  Colonel  Sharpe.     And  you,  sir- 
are  you  not  Mr.  Calvert  ?" 

"  Ay,  sir ;  and,  as  Mr.  Calvert,  I  can  not  know  Colonel 
Sharpe." 

These  words  were  spoken  in  hoarse,  almost  choking  ac 
cents,  but  full  of  determination.  The  heart  of  the  speaker 
was  swelling  with  indignation  ;  his  brain  was  fired  with 
terrible  reminiscences  ;  his  check  was  flushed  with  inexpres- 


196  BKAUCiiAMPE. 

eible  passion  ;  nis  eyes  darted  glances  of  most  withering 
scorn /  hate,  loathing,  full  in  the  face  of  his  opponent. 

Aiid  thus  stood  the  two  for  a  moment.  For  that  space, 
all  was  mute  consternation  in  the  circle.  At  length,  old 
Calvcrt  found  his  voice,  though  almost  in  a  whisper,  and, 
drawing  close  to  the  young  man,  he  said  : —  » 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  son  ?  Wherefore  this  strange 
anger  ?  Who  is  this  man,  and  why — " 

Young  Calvert  had  only  time  to  say  —  "What,  sir!  do 
ycu  not  see? — '  when  Sharpe,  fully  recovered  from  his 
momentary  surprise,  came  forward  with  Barnabas,  and, 
with  rising  accents,  formally  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  You  must  explain,  sir  —  explain  !"  said  Mr.  Barnabas. 
"  Why,  sir,  do  you  say  that  you  can  not  know  my  friend  ?" 

"  For  the  simple  reason,  sir,  that  I  know  him  too  well 
already,"  was  the  answer,  made  with  a  successful  effort  to 
epeak  in  distinct  and  resolute  tones. 

"  lla!"  exclaimed  Sharpe  —  "  know  me?" 

"  Ay,  sir!  as  a  villain  —  a  base,  consummate  villain  !" 

All  was  confusion  again. 

Sharpe,  with  prompt  fury,  darted  upon  the  speaker,  put 
ting  forth  all  his  strength  of  sinew  for  the  grapple.  But 
he  was  not  the  man,  physically,  to  deal  with  Calvert.  The 
latter  seized  him  with  a  gripe  of  iron,  and,  with  a  moderate 
effort  of  muscle,  flung  him  off,  staggering,  among  the  group 
near  the  door.  .This  performance  exhibited  such  a  degree 
of  strength  as  amply  satisfied  all  the  spectators  that  Cal 
vert  might  well  scorn  such  an  assailant  in  that  sort  of 
encounter. 

Sharpe  did  not  fall  —  was  perhaps  saved  from  falling  by 
the  interposing  crowd.  He  soon  recovered  himself,  and 
was  rushing  forward  to  renew  his  hopeless  attempt,  when 
his  friend  Barnabas  threw  his  arms  around  him,  and  held 
him  back. 

"  Unhand  me,  Barnabas !  unhand  me,  I  say !  Shall  I 
submit  to  a  blow  ?" 


THE    MEETING    OP   THE    WATERS AN    EXPLOSION.       LD7 

"  Surely  not,  Sharpc.     But  this  is  not  the  way." 

For  a  moment,  as  if  slowly  recovering  thought,  Sharpe 
paused,  then  said  huskily,  and  in  low  tones  :— 

"You  are  right.     There  must  be  blood!     See  to  it!" 

"  Stand  back  !     I  will  see  to  it." 

Then  advancing  to  the  other  party,  Barnabas  said : — 

"  Mr.  Calvert,  we  must  have  an  apology,  or  a  meeting 
And  the  apology  must  be  ample,  sir ;  and  it  must  be  public, 
as  is  the  offence." 

"  Apology,  sir  !  —  to  that  worthless  scoundrel  ?  You  mis 
take  me,  sir,  very  much,  if  you  suppose  that  I  shall  apolo 
gize  to  him,  of  all  men  living,  whatever  the  offence  !  It  is 
possible,  too,  sir,  that  you  somewhat  mistake  your  friend, 
lie  will  scarcely  demand  one  —  will  certainly  not  need  one 

—  when  he  knows  me  —  when  he  recalls  the  features  of  one 
who  has  already  taught  him  what  to  fear  from  an  avenger!" 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  demanded  Barnabas  ;  while 
Sharpe  eagerly  stretched  forward,  bewildered  —  with  curi 
ous  eyes,  seeking  to  distinguish  the  features  of  the  speaker 

—  a  study  not  much  facilitated  by  the  dim  light  of  the  two 
tallow-candles  which  stood  upon  the  mantel-place. 

"  Who,  then,  are  you,  sir?"  continued  Barnabas. 

"  Nay,  sir,"  answered  the  other,  u  speak  for  your  friend  ! 
Your  Colonel  Sharpe  has,  I  fancy,  as  many  aliases  as  any 
rogue  of  London!  Let  Colonel  Sharpe — if  such  be,  in 
truth,  his  name — " 

a  It  is  his  name,  sir,  J  assure  you.  Why  should  you 
doubt  it  ?" 

"  I  have  known  him  by  another,  and  one  associated  with 
the  foulest  infamy !" 

uHa!"  cried  Sharpe  —  beginning,  perhaps,  to  recall  an 
\mhappy  past. 

Calvert  turned  full  toward  him. 

"  Look  at  me,  Alfred  Stevens — for  suon  I  must  still  call 
.ou — look  at  me,  and  behold  one  who  is  ready  to  avenge 
tb.e  dishonor  of  Margaret  Cooper !  Ha!  villain!  do  you 


198  BEAUCHAMPE. 

start  ?  do  you  shrink  ?  do  you  remember  now  the  young 
preacher  of  Charlemont?  —  the  swindling,  smooth-spoken 
rogue,  who  sought  out  the  home  of  innocence  to  rob  it  oi 
peace  and  innocence  at  a  blow  ?  Once,  before  this,  we 
stood  opposed  in  deadly  strife.  Do  you  think  that  I  am 
less  ready  now  ?  Then,  your  foul  crime  had  not  been  con 
summated  :  would  to  God  I  had  slain  you  then ! 

"  But  it  is  not  too  late  for  vengeance  !  Apology,  indeed  ! 
Will  you  fight,  Alfred  Stevens?  Say — are  you  as  ready 
now  as  when  the  cloth  of  the  preacher  might  have  been  a 
protection  for  your  cowardice  ?  If  you  are,  say  to  your 
friend  here  that  apology  between  us  is  a  word  of  vapor, 
and  no  meaning.  Atonement — blood  only  —  nothing  less 
will  suffice !" 

Sharpc.  staggered  at  the  first  address  of  the  speaker,  had 
now  recovered  himself.  His  countenance  was  deadly  pale. 
His  eyes  wandered.  He  had  been  stunned  by  the  sudden 
ness  of  Culvert's  revelations.  But  the  eyes  of  the  crowd 
were  upon  him.  Murmurs  of  suspicion  reached  his  ears.  It 
was  necessary  that  he  should  take  decided  ground.  Your 
politician  must  not  want  audacity.  Nay,  in  proportion  to 
his  diminished  honesty,  must  be  his  increase  of  brass.  To 
brazen  it  out  was  his  policy  ;  and,  by  a  strong  effort,  regain 
ing  his  composure,  he  quietly  exclaimed,  looking  round  him 
as  he  spoke  : — 

"  The  man  is  certainly  mad.  I  know  not  what  he 
means." 

"  Liar !  this  will  not  serve  you.  You  shall  not  escape 
me.  You  do  not  deceive  me.  You  shall  twt  deceive  these 
people.  Your  words  may  deny  the  truth  of  what  I  say, 
but  your  pallid  cheeks  confess  it.  Your  hoarse,  choking 
accents,  your  down-looking  eyes,  confess  it.  The  lie  that 
is  spoken  by  your  tongue  is  contradicted  by  all  your  other 
faculties.  There  is  no  man  present  who  does  not  see  that 
you  tremble  in  your  secret  soul  ;  that  I  have  spoken  noth 
ing  but  the  truth;  that  you  are  the  base  villain — the  de- 


THE    MEETING    OF   THE    WATERS  —  AN    EXPLOSION.       199 

etroyer  of  beauty  and  innocence — -that  I  have  pronounced 
you!" 

u  This  is  strange,  very  strange!"  said  Mr.  Barnabas. 

:'  The  man  is  certainly  mad,"  continued  Sharpe,  "  or 
this  is  a  political  charge  intended  to  destroy  me.  A  poor, 
base  trick,  this  of  yours,  Mr.  Calvert.  It  will  have  no 
effect  upon  the  people.  They  understand  that  sort  of  thing 
too  well." 

"  They  shall  understand  it  better"  said  Calvert.  "  They 
shall  have  the  whole  history  of  your  baseness.  Political 
trick,  indeed !  We  leave  that  business  to  you,  whose  very 
life  has  been  a  lie.  My  friends — " 

u  Stay,  sir,'1  said  Barnabas.  "  There  is  a  shorter  way 
to  settle  this.  My  friend  has  wronged  you,  you  say.  He 
shall  give  you  redress.  There  need  be  no  more  words 
between  us." 

"  Ay,  but  there  must.  The  redress,  of  course ;  but  the 
words  shall  be  a  matter  of  course,  also.  You  shall  hear 
my  charge  against  this  man  renewed.  —  I  pronounce  him  a 
villain,  who,  under  the  name  of  Alfred  Stevens,  five  years 
ago  made  his  appearance  in  the  village  of  Charlemont, 
and,  pretending  to  be  a  student  of  divinity,  obtained  the 
confidence  of  the  people  ;  won  the  affections  of  a  young  lady 
of  the  place,  dishonored  and  deserted  her.  This  is  the 
charge  I  make  against  him,  which  will  be  sustained  by  this 
venerable  man.  and  for  the  truth  of  which  I  invoke  the  all- 
witnessing  lleavcn.  Alfred  Stevens,  I  defy  you  to  deny 
this  charge." 

"It  is  all  false  as  hell!"  was  the  husky  answer  of  the 
criminal. 

"It  is  true  as  heaven!"  said  Calvert,  and  his  assevera 
tion  was  now  confirmed  by  that  of  the  aged  man  by  whom 
he  was  accompanied. 

Nor  were  the  spectators  unimpressed  by  the  firm,  un 
bending  superiority  of  manner  possessed  by  Calvert  ovet 
that  of  Sharpe,  who  was  wanting  in  his  usual  confidence. 


200  BEAOCHAMPE. 

and  who,  possibly  from  the  suddenness  of  the  charge,  and 
possibly  from  a  guilty  conscience,  failed  in  that  promptness 
and  freedom  of  utterance  which,  in  the  case  of  his  accuser, 
was  greatly  increased  by  the  feeling  of  scorn  and  indigna 
tiou  which  was  so  suddenly  reawakened  in  his  bosom. 

The  little  landlord  of  the  Red  Heifer,  about  this  time 
made  himself  particularly  busy  in  whispering  around  that 
it  was  precisely  five  years  ago  that  Colonel  Sharpc  had 
taken  a  trip  to  the  south  with  his  uncle,  and  was  absent 
two  thirds  of  the  year. 

How  much  more  the  Red  Heifer  might  have  said  — for 
he  had  his  own  wrongs  to  stimulate  his  hostility  and  mem 
ory —  can  only  be  conjectured;  for  he  wao  suddenly  si 
lenced  by  the  landlord  of  the  opposition-house,  who  threat 
ened  to  wring  his  neck  if  he  again  thrust  it  forward  in  the 
business. 

But  the  hint  of  the  little  man  had  not  fallen  upon  un 
heeding  ears.  There  were  some  two  or  three  persons  who 
recalled  the  period  of  Sharpens  absence  in  the  south,  and 
found  it  to  agree  with  Culvert's  statements.  The  buzz  be 
came  general  among  the  crowd,  but  was  silenced  by  the 
coolness  of  Barnabas. 

"  Mr.  Calvert,"  said  he,  "  you  are  evidently  mistaken  in 
your  man.  My  friend  denies  your  story  as  it  concerns  him 
self.  We  do  not  deny  that  some  person  looking  like  my 
friend  may  have  practised  upon  your  people ;  but  that  he 
is  not  the  man  he  insists.  There  is  yet  time  to  withdraw 
from  the  awkward  position  in  which  you  have  placed  your 
self.  There  i.s  no  shame  in  acknowledging  an  error.  You 
are  clearly  in  error:  you  can  not  persevere  in  it  without 
injustice.  Let  me  beg  you,  sir,  for  your  own  sake,  to  admit 
as  much,  and  shake  hands  upon  it." 

"Shake  hands,  and  with  him?  No,  no,  Gir !  this  car. 
not  be.  I  am  in  no  error.  I  do  not  mistake  my  man.  Ho 
iy  the  very  villain  I  have  declared  him.  He  must  please 
himself  as  he  mav  with  the  epithet  " 


THE   MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS  —  AN    EXPLOSION.         201 

"  I  am  sorry  you  persist  in  this  unhappy  business,  Mr, 
Calvert.  My  friend  will  withdraw  for  the  present.  May  I 
see  you  privately  within  the  hour  ?" 

"  At  any  moment.*' 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  like  promptness  in 
such  matters.  But,  once  more,  sir,  it  is  not  too  late.  These 
gentlemen  will  readily  understand  how  you  have  confounded 
two  persons  who  look  something  alike.  But  there  is  a  shade 
of  difference,  as  you  see,  in  the  chin,  the  forehead,  perhaps, 
the  color  of  the  eyes.  Look  closely,  I  pray  you,  for  truly  I 
should  be  sorry,  for  your  own  sake,  to  have  you  persist  in 
your  error." 

Mr.  Barnabas,  in  order  to  afford  Calvert  the  desired  op 
portunity  of  discerning  the  difference  between  the  charged 
and  the  guilty  party,  took  the  light  from  the  mantel  and 
held  it  close  to  the  face  of  Sharpe. 

"  Pshaw!''  said  the  latter,  somewhat  impatiently,  "the 
fellow  is  a  madman  or  a  fool.  Why  do  you  trouble  your 
self  further?  Let  him  have  what  he  wishes/' 

The  voice  of  Calvert,  at  the  same  moment,  disclaimed 
every  doubt  on  the  score  of  the  criminal's  identity. 

"  He  is  the  man  !  I  should  know  him,  by  day  and  by 
night,  among  ten  thousand!" 

"You  won't  confess  yourself  mistaken,  then?"  said  Bar 
nabas;  "a  mere  confession  of  error — an  inaccurary  of 
vision  —  the  smallest  form  of  admission!" 

Calvert  turned  from  him  scornfully. 

"Very  well,  sir,  if  it  must  be  so!  Good  people — my 
friends — you  bear  us  witness  we  have  tried  every  effort  to 
obtain  peace.  We  are  very  pacific.  But  there  is  a  point 
beyond  which  there  is  no  forbearance.  Integrity  can  keep 
no  terms  with  slander.  Not  one  among  you  but  would  fight 
if  you  were  called  Alfred  Stevens.  It  is  the  name,  as  you 
hear,  of  a  swindler — a  seducer — a  fellow  destined  for  the 
high  sessions  for  Judge  Lynch.  We  shall  hear  of  him  un 
der  some  other  alias.  We  have  assured  the  young  gentle- 

9* 


202 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


man  here  tliat  we  arc  not  Alfred  Stevens,  and  prefer  not  to 
be  called  by  a  nickname ;  but  he  persists,  and  you  Know 
what  is  to  follow.  You  can  all  retire  to  bed,  therefore, 
with  the  gratifying  conviction  that  both  gentlemen,  being 
bound  for  it,  and  good  Kentuckians,  will  be  sure  to  do  their 
duty  when  the  time  comes.  Good-night,  gentlemen  —  arid 
may  you  sleep  to  waken  in  the  morning  to  hear  some  fa 
mous  arguments.  I  sincerely  trust  that  nothing  will  hyp- 
pen  to  prevent  any  of  the  speakers  from  attending  ;  but  life 
is  the  breath  in  our  nostrils,  and  may  go  out  with  a  sneeze. 
Of  one  thing  I  can  assure  you,  that  it  will  be  no  fault  of 
mine  if  you  do  not  hear  the  eloquence,  at  least,  of  Mr. 
Barnabas." 

"  Hurra  for  Barnabas  !  hurra  !"  was  the  cry. 

"Hurra  for  Barnabas !"  the  echo. 

"  Calvert  for  ever!"  roared  the  trombone  in  the  corner; 
and  the  several  instruments  followed  for  Sharpe,  Calvert, 
and  Barnabas,  according  to  the  sort  of  pipes  and  stops 
with  which  Providence  had  kindly  blessed  them. 


BILLETS    FOR   BULLETS — HOW   WRITTEN.  S03 


j  CHAPTER    XIX. 

! 

BILLETS    FOR   BULLETS  —  HOW   WRITTEN. 

"  I  KNOW  that  this  is  unavoidable.  I  know  not  well,  my 
son,  hovv  you  could  have  acted  otherwise  than  you  did  ;  and 
yet  the  whole  affair  is  very  shocking." 

Thus  began  the  elder  Calvert  to  the  younger,  when  they 
again  found  themselves  alone  together. 

"  It  is  :  but  crime  is  shocking ;  and  death  is  shocking ; 
and  a  thousand  events  that,  nevertheless,  occur  hourly  in 
life,  are  shocking.  Our  best  philosophy,  when  they  seem 
unavoidable,  is,  to  prepare  for  them  as  resolutely  as  we 
prepare  for  death." 

"  It  may  be  death,  my  son  !"  said  the  other  with  a  shud 
der. 

"  And  if  it  were,  sir,  I  should  gladly  meet  death,  that  I 
might  have  the  power  of  avenging  her!  0  God!  when  I 
think  of  her  —  so  beautiful,  so  proud,  so  bright  —  so  dear 
to  me  then  —  so  dear  to  me  even  now  —  I  feel  how  worth 
less  to  me  are  all  the  triumphs  of  life  —  how  little  worth  is 
life  itself!" 

And  a  passionate  flood  of  tears  concluded  the  words  of 
the  speaker. 

"  Give  not  thus  way,  my  son.     Be  a  man." 

"  Am  I  not  ?  God !  what  have  I  not  endured  ?  what 
have  I  not  overcome  ?  Will  you  not  suffer  a  moment's 
weakness  —  not  even  when  I  think  of  her?  0  Margaret! 
but  for  this  serpent  in  our  Eden,  what  mi^ht  we  not  have 


204  BEAUCHAMPK. 

been  !  How  might  we  have  loved  !  how  happy  might  have 
passed  those  days  which  are  now  toil  and  hopelessness  to 
me,  which  are  shame  and  desolation  to  you !  But  for  this 
serpent,  we  had  both  been  happy." 

"  No,  my  son,  that  would  have  been  impossible.  But  the 
.speculation  is  useless  now." 

"  Worse  than  useless  !" 

"  Why  brood  upon  it,  then  ?" 

"  For  that  very  reason  :  as  one  broods  over  his  loss,  who 
does  not  value  his  gain.  It  is  thus  I  think  of  her,  and 
cease  to  think  of  these  successes.  What  are  they  to  me  ? 
Nothing!  All !  what  might  they  not  have  been  had  she 
been  mine?  0  my  father!  I  think  of  her — her  beauty, 
her  genius  —  as  of  some  fallen  angel.  I  look  upon  this 
wretch  as  I  should  regard  the  fiend.  The  hoof  is  wanting, 
it  is  true,  but  the  mark  of  the  beast  is  in  his  face.  It  can 
surely  be  no  crime  to  slay  such  a  wretch  :  murder  it  can 
not  be!" 

"You  think  not  of  yourself,  William." 

"  Yes  ! — lie  may  kill  me  ;  but  thinking  of  her,  the  fallen 
—  and  of  him  the  beguiler  —  I  have  no  fear  of  death  —  I 
know  not  that  I  have  a  love  of  life  —  I  think  only  of  the 
chance  accorded  me  of  avenging  her  cruel  overthrow. " 

The  re-entrance  of  Mr.  Barnabas,  interrupted  the  dia 
logue.  He  came  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements. 

u  Very  awkward  business,  Mr.  Calvert — too  late  now 
for  adjustment.  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the 
name  of  your  friend." 

Calvert  named  Major  Hawick,  a  young  gentleman  of  his 
party  ;  but  the  old  man  interfered. 

"  /will  act  for  you,  William." 

"  You  !"  said  the  young  man. 

"  You,  old  gentleman  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Barnabas. 

"Yes,"  replied  old  Calvert,  with  spirit,  "  shall  I  be  more 
reluctant  than  you  to  serve  my  friend.  This,  sir,  is  my  son 
by  adoption.  I  love  him  as  if  he  were  my  own.  I  love 


BILLETS    FOR   BULLETS  —  HOW   WRITTEN.  205 

him  better  than  life.  Shall  I  leave  him  at  the  very  time 
when  life  is  perilled.  No — no !  I  am  sorry  for  this  affair, 
bat  will  stand  by  him  to  the  last.  Let  us  discuss  the  ar 
rangements." 

"  You've  seen  service  before,  old  gentleman,"  said  Bar 
nabas,  looking  the  eulogium  which  lie  did  not  express. 

"  I,  too,  have  been  young,"  said  the  other. 

"  True  blue,  still,"  said  Barnabas  ;  "  and  though  I'm 
sorry  for  the  affair,  yet,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  deal  with  a 
gentleman  of  the  right  spirit.  I  trust  that  your  son  is  a 
shot." 

"  He  has  nerve  and  eye  !" 

"  Good  things  enough  —  very  necessary  things,  but  a  spice 
of  practice  does  no  harm.  Now,  Sharpe  has  a  knack  with 
a  pistol  that  makes  it  curious  to  see  him,  if  you  be  only  a 
looker-on" 

"  Let  me  stop  you,  young  gentleman,"  said  old  Calvort ; 
"  when  I  was  a  young  man,  such  a  remark  would  have 
been  held  an  impertinence." 

"  Egad  !"  said  Barnabas,  "  you  have  me  !  Arc  we  agreed 
then  ?  Shall  it  be  pistols  ?" 

"  Y2S  :  at  sunrise  to-morrow." 

"  Good  !" 

"  Distance,  when  we  meet,"  said  Calvert. 

The  place  of  meeting  was  soon  agreed  on,  and  the  parties 
separated  ;  Barnabas  taking  his  leave  by  complimenting 
the  "  old  gentleman,"  as  a  "  first-rate  man  of  business." 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  "  after  he  had  reported  to  Sharpe 
the  progress  of  the  arrangements  ;  "  of  course  you  were  the 
said  Stevens.  I  saw  that  the  fellow's  story  was  true  at  the 
first  jump,  ft  was  so  like  you." 

"  How  if  I  deny  it  ?" 

"  I  shouldn't  believe  you.  'Twas  too  natural.  Besides, 
Whisker-Ben  blew  you  long  ago,  though  he  could  not  tell 
the  girl's  name.  Where's  she  now  —  what's  become  of 
ber  ?" 


20fi  BEAUCIIAMPK. 

"  That's  the  mystery  1  should  give  something  handsome 
to  find  out ;  but  you  may  guess,  from  the  spirit  this  felloe 
has  shown,  that  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to  go  back  to  Charle 
mont.  She  was  a  splendid  woman  !" 

"  Was  she  though  ?  I  reckon  this  fellow  loved  her.  Ha 
must  have  done  so.  He  looked  all  he  said." 

"  He  did  !  The  wonder  is  equally  great  in  his  case.  He 
was  a  sort  of  half-witted  rustic  in  Charlernont — Margaret 
despised  him- — he  wanted  to  light  me  before,  on  her  ac 
count,  arid  we  were  within  an  ace  of  it.  His  name  was 
Hinkley  —  to  think  that  I  should  meet  in  him  the  now 
famous  Culvert.  Look  you,  Barnabas  !  the  pistol  is  a  way 
we  had  not  thought  of  for  laying  our  orator  on  his  back/' 

"  Will  you  do  it  ?" 

"  I  must !  He  leaves  me  no  alternative.  He  will  keep 
no  terms — no  counsel.  If  he  goes  on  to  blab  this  business 
—  nay,  he  can  prove  it,  you  see  —  he  will  play  the  devil 
with  my  chances." 

"  Wing  him  !  That  will  be  enough.  The.  fellow  has 
pluck  ;  and  for  the  sake  of  that  brave  old  cock,  his  father, 
I'd  like  him  to  get  off  with  breath  enough  to  carry  him 
farther." 

"  No,  d — n  him,  let  him  pay  the  penalty  of  his  impevti 
nence  !  Who  made  him  the  champion  of  Margaret  Cooper  ? 
Were  he  her  husband  now  —  nay,  had  she  even  tolerated 
him  —  I  think  I  should  let  him  off  with  some  moderate  hurt ; 
but  I  owe  him  a  grudge.  You  have  not  heard  a/I,  Barna 
bas  !" — the  tone  of  the  speaker  was  lowered  here,  and  a 
deep  crimson  flush  suffused  his  face  as  he  concluded  thc 
sentence  — "  He  struck  me,  Barnabas  —  he  laid  ccwskm 
over  my  back  !" 

"  The  d— 1  he  did  !" 

11  He  did  —  I  must  remember  that  /" 

"  So  you  must !     So  you  must  P 

"  I  will  kill  him,  Barnabas  !  I  am  resolved  on  it !  I  feel 
the  sting  of  that  cowskin  even  now  ?" 


BILLETS    FOR    BULLETS — HOW   WRITTEN  2<"»7- 

"  So  you  must,  hut  somehow,  d — n  the  fellow,  I'd  like  to 
get  him  off." 

"  Pshaw  !  you  are  getting  old.  Certainly  you  arc  get 
ting  blind.  We  have  a  thousand  reasons  for  not  letting 
him  off.  He's  in  our  way — he's  a  giant  among  the  oppo 
sition —  the  crack  man  they  have  set  up  against  me.  Even 
if  1  had  not  any  personal  causes  of  provocation,  do  you  not 
see  how  politic  it  would  be  to  put  him  out  of  the  field.  It's 
he  or  me.  If  Desha  succeeds,  I  am  attorney-general ;  if 
Tompkins,  Calvert !  No  —  no!  The  more  I  think  of  it, 
the  more  necessary  it  becomes  to  kill  him." 

"  But,  what  if  he  shoots  ?" 

"  That  he  does  not  —  he  did  not  at  least.  You  must,  at 
all  events,  secure  me  my  distance.  I  suppose  you  will  have 
little  difficulty  in  this  respect.  The  old  man  will  scarcely 
know  anything  about  these  matters." 

"  You're  mistaken  —  he  talks  as  if  he  had  been  at  it  all 
his  life.  I  reckon  he  has  fed  on  fire  in  his  younger  days. 
The  choice,  of  course,  is  his." 

"  A  little  adroitness,  Barnabas,  will  give  us  what  wo 
want.  You  can  insinuate  twelve  paces." 

"  Yes,  that  can  be  done,  but  ten  is  more  usual.  Suppose 
he  adopts  ten  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  expect.  He  will  scarcely  accept  your 
suggestion.  lie  will  naturally  suppose,  from  what  you  say, 
that  I  practise  at  twelve.  This  will,  very  probably,  induce 
him  to  say  ten,  and  then  I  have  him  on  my  own  terms.  I 
shall  easily  bottle  him  at  that  distance." 

"  And  you  will  really  commission  the  bullet  ?  You  imll 
kill  him  ?" 

"Must!" 

"  Sleep  on  that  resohtion  first,  Sharpe!" 

"  It  will  do  no  good.  It  will  not  change  me.  This  fel 
low  was  nothing  to  Margaret  Cooper,  and  what  right  had 
he  to  interfere  ?  Besides  —  you  forget  the  cowskin." 


208  HEAUCTIAMPE. 

"  Oh  !  true  — d — n  that  cowskin  !     That's  the  worst  part 
of  the  business." 

"  Good  night,  Barnabas,"  said  Sharpe.     "  See  that  I  do 
not  oversleep  myself.' 

"  No  fear.  Good  night !  Good  niglit !  D — n  the  fel 
low.  Why  did  he  use  a  cowskin  ?  A  hickory  had  not  been 
so  bad.  Now  will  Sharpe  kill  him  to  a  dead  certainty, 
lie's  good  for  any  button  on  Calvcrt's  coat ;  o,nd  there  he 
goes,  yawning  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  to  meet,  to-morrow 
morning,  nothing  worse  than  his  hominy  /" 


"FIVE   PACES  —  WHEEL   AND    FIRE."  209 


CHAPTER    XX. 

"FIVE    PACES  —  WHEEL   AND    FIRE." 

IT  was  something  of  a  sad  sight  to  see  good  old  Mr.  Cal- 
rt,  till  a  late  hour  that  night,  brushing  up  the  murderous 
weapons,  adjusting  bullets,  and  cutting  out  patches,  with  all 
the  interested  industry  of  a  fire-eater.  It  was  in  vain  that 
his  son  —  his  adopted  son,  rather,  for  the  reader  should 
know  by  this  time  with  whom  he  deals  —  it  was  in  vain  that 
he  implo.cd  him  to  forego  an  employment  which  really 
made  him  melancholy,  not  on  his  own,  but  the  venerable 
old  man's  account.  Old  Calvert  was  principled  against 
duelling,  as  he  was  principled  against  war ;  but  he  recog 
nised  the  necessity  in  both  cases  of  employing  those  modes 
by  which,  to  prevent  wrong,  society  insists  upon  avenging 
it.  He  would  have  preferred  that  William  Calvert  should 
not  go  into  the  field  on  account  of  Margaret  Cooper  ;  but, 
once  invited,  he  recognised  in  all  its  excellence  the  good 
counsel  of  Polonius  to  his  son  :  — 

"  Beware 

Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel :  but  being  in, 
Bear  it  that  the  opposcr  may  beware  of  thee." 

He  at  least  was  resolved  that  William  should  not  go  un 
prepared  and  unprovided,  in  the  properest  manner,  to  do 
mischief.  Jn  the  hot  days  of  his  own  youth,  lie  had  acquired 
some  considerable  knowledge  of  the  weapon,  and  the  laws 


210  BEAUCHAMPfc. 

rather  understood  than  expressed,  which  govern  personal 
combat  as  it  is,  or  was,  practised  in  our  country.  His  care 
was  now  given,  not  simply  to  the  condition  of  the  weapons, 
but  the  mind  of  the  combatant.  The  modes  by  which  the 
imagination  is  rendered  obtuse — the  hardening  of  the 
nerves — the  exercise  of  the  eye  and  arm  —  could  not  be 
resorted  to  in  the  brief  interval  which  remained  before  the 
appointed  hour  of  conflict  —  and  something  was  due  to  slum 
ber,  without  which,  all  exercise  and  instruction  would  be 
only  thrown  away.  But  there  is  much  that  a  judicious 
mind  can  do  in  acting  upon  the  moral  nature  of  the  party ; 
and  the  conversation  of  old  Calvert  was  judiciously  ad 
dressed  to  this  point.  The  young  man,  who  had  by  this 
time  learned  to  know  most  of  the  habitual  trains  of  thought 
by  which  his  tutor  was  characterized,  readily  perceived  his 
object. 

"  You  mistake,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said,  smiling,  after  the 
lapse  of  an  hour,  which  had  been  consumed  as  above  de 
scribed  ;  "  you  mistake  if  you  think  I  shall  fail  in  nerve  or 
coolness.  Be  sure,  sir,  I  never  felt  half  so  determined  in 
all  my  life.  The  remembrance  of  Margaret  Cooper — the 
sense  of  former  wrong — the  loathing  hate  which  I  entertain 
for  this  reptile — exclude  every  feeling  from  my  soul  but 
one,  and  that  is  the  deliberate  determination  to  destroy  him 
if  I  can." 

"  This  very  intensity,  William,  will  shake  your  nerves. 
Xo  man  is  more  cool  than  he  who  obeys  no  single  feeling. 
Single  feelings  become  intense  and  agitating  from  the  ab 
sence  or  absorption  of  all  the  rest." 

"  Feel  my  arm,  sir,"  he  said,  extending  the  limb. 

"  It  is  firm,  noiv,  William  ;  but  if  you  do  not  sleep,  will 
it  be  so  in  the  morning  ?" 

"Yes — I  have  no  fear  of  it." 

"  But  you  will  go  to  sleep  now  ?  You  see  I  have  every 
thing  ready." 

"  No  !    I  can  not.  sir.     1   mu«t    write.     I  have  much   to 


"FIVE    PACES  —  WHEEL    AND    FIRE."  21'] 

say,  which,  to  leave  unsaid,  would  be  criminal.  Do  you 
retire.  Hawick  will  soon  bo  here,  who  will  complete  what 
you  have  been  doing.  He  is  expert  at  these  matters,  and 
will  neglect  nothing.  I  have  penned  him  a  note  to  that 
effect.  Pie  will  accompany  us  in  the  morning.  Do  you  go 
to  bed  now.  You  can  not,  at  your  time  of  life,  do  without 
sleep  and  not  suffer.  It  can  not  affect  me  —  nay,  if  I  did 
go  to  bed,  it  would  be  impossible,  with  these  thoughts  in 
my  mind  —  these  feelings  in  my  heart  —  that  I  should  close 
my  eyes*.  I  should  only  toss  and  tumble,  and  become  ner 
vous  from  very  uneasiness." 

Having  finished,  the  old  man  prepared  to  adopt  the  sug 
gestion  of  the  young  one.  He  rose  to  retire,  but  the 
"good  night"  faltered  on  his  lips.  Young  Calvert,  who 
was  walking  to  and  fro,  was  struck  by  the  accents.  Sud 
denly  turning  he  rushed  to  the  venerable  man.  and  fell  upon 
his  neck. 

"Father!  —  more  than  father  to  me!"  exclaimed  the 
youth  —  "  forgive  me  if  I  have  offended  you.  1  feel  that  1 
have  often  erred,  but  through  weakness  only,  not  wilfulness. 
You  have  succored  and  strengthened — you  have  taught, 
counselled,  and  preserved  me.  Bless  me,  and  forgive  me, 
my  father,  if  in  this  I  have  gone  against  your  wishes  and 
will  —  if  I  have  refused  your  paternal  guidance.  Believe 
me,  1  have  but  one  regret  at  this  moment,  and  it  grows  out 
of  the  pain  which  I  feel  that  I  inflict  on  you.  But  you  will 
forgive  —  you  will  bless  me,  my  dear  father,  and  should  I 
survive  this  meeting,  I  will  strive  to  atone  —  to  recompense 
you  by  the  most  fond  service,  for  this  one  wilfulness  !" 

"  God  bless  you,  my  son  —  God  preserve  you!"  was  the 
only  reply  which  the  old  man  could  make.  His  heart 
seemed  bursting  with  emotion,  and  sobs,  which  he  vainly 
strove  to  repress,  rose  in  his  throat  with  a  choking,  suffo 
cating  rapidity.  His  tears  fell  upon  the  young  man's 
shoulder  while  he  passionately  kissed  his  cheek. 

"  God  will  save  you,"  he  continued,  as  he  broke  away 


212  .BEAUCHAMPE. 

and,  sobbing  as  he  went  from  sight,  his  broken  accents 
might  still,  for  a  few  seconds,  be  heard  in  the  reiteration 
of  this  one  sentence  of  equal  confidence  and  prayer. 

"  That  is  done  —  that  is  over  !"  said  the  youth,  sinking 
into  a  seat  beside  the  table  where  the  writing  materials 
were  placed :  his  hands  covered  his  face  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  as  if  to  shut  from  sight  the  image  of  the  old  man's 
agony. 

"  That  word  of  parting  was  my  fear,  good  old  man  !"  lie 
continued,  after  the  pause  of  a  few  moments  —  "what  a 
Spartan  spirit  does  he  possess  !  Surely  he  loves  rne  quite 
as  well  as  father  ever  loved  son  before.  Yet,  with  what 
strength  of  resolution  lie  prepares  the  weapon  —  prepares  to 
lose  me  perhaps  for  ever.  I  can  not  doubt  that  the  loss  will 
be  great  to  him.  It  will  be  the  loss  of  all.  His  hope,  and 
the  predictions  of  his  hope,  are  all  perilled  by  this ;  yet 
he  complains  not — he  has  no  reproaches  ! 

"  Surely,  I  have  been  too  wanton — -too  rash  —  too  precip 
itate  in  this  business  !  What  to  me  is  Margaret  Cooper  ! 
Her  beauty,  her  talents,  and  that  fair  fame  of  which  this 
reptile  has  for  ever  robbed  her!  She  loved  me  not — she 
hearkened  not  to  my  prayer  of  love  —  to  that  love  which 
can  not  perish  though  the  object  of  its  devotion,  like  a  star 
gone  suddenly  from  a  high  place  at  night,  has  sunk  for  ever 
into  darkness.  I  am  not  pledged  to  fight  her  battles — to 
repair  her  shame — to  bruise  the  head  of  the  reptile  by 
which  she  was  beguiled. 

"  Alas !  I  can  not  reason  after  this  cold  fashion.  Is  it 
not  because  of  this  reptile  that  she  is  nothing  to  me  —  and 
does  not  this  make  her  defence  everything  —  heighten  the 
passion  of  hate,  and  make  bloody  vengeance  a  most  sacred 
virtue  ? 

"  It  does — it  must.  Alfred  Stevens,  I  can  not  choose 
but  seek  thy  life.  The  imploring  beauties  of  Margaret 
Cooper  rise  before  me,  and  command  me.  I  will  try  !  So 
help  me  God,  as  I  believe,  that  the  sacrifice  of  tho  reptik 


FIVE    PACES  —  WHEEL    AND    FIRE."  %^\ 

that  crawls  to  the  family  altar  to  leave  its  slime  and  venom 
is  a  duty  with  man — due  to  the  holiest  hopes  and  affec 
tions  of  man  —  and  is  praiseworthy  in  the  sight  of  God  !  I 
can  not  choose  but  believe  this.  God  give  me  strength  to 
convert  desire  into  performance !" 

He  raised  the  pistol,  unconsciously,  as  he  spoke.  He 
pressed  it  to  his  forehead.  He  lifted  it  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  as  if,  in  this  way,  he  solemnized  his  oath.  Thfe 
grasp  of  the  weapon  in  his  hand  suggested  a  new  train  of 
emotion. 

"I  may  fall  —  I  may  perish!  The  hopes  of  this  good 
old  man  —  my  own  hopes  —  may  all  be  set  at  naught.  Can 
it  be  that  in  a  few  hours  I  shall  be  nothing  ?  This  voice  be 
silent — this  arm  cold,  unconscious,  upon  this  cold  bosom. 
Strange,  terrible  fancy  ! — I  must  not  think  of  it.  It  makes 
me  shudder!  It  is  too  late  for  thoughts  like  these.  1 
must  be  a  man  now  —  a  man  only.  The  mere  pang — that 
is  nothing.  But  he  —  thrice  a  father — lie  will  feel  three 
fold  pangs  which  shall  be  more  lasting.  Yet,  even  with 
him,  they  can  not  endure  long.  Who  else  ?  My  poor,  poor 
mother  !" 

He  paused — he  drew  the  paper  before  him  —  a  tear  fell 
upon  the  unwritten  sheet,  and  he  thrust  it  away. 

"  There  is  one  other  pain  !  One  thought !"  he  murmured. 
"These  high  hopes — these  schemes  of  greatness  —  these 
dreams  of  ambition  —  stopped  suddenly  —  like  rich  flowers 
blooming  late,  cut  down  at  midnight  by  the  premature 
frost !  Oh  !  if  I  perish  r  w,  how  much  will  be  left  un 
done  r 

Once  more  the  youth  started  to  his  feet  and  paced  the 
chamber.  But  he  soon  subdued  the  rebellious  struggles  of 
his  more  human  nature.  Quieted  once  more  he  sought  to 
baffle  thought  by  concentrating  himself  upon  his  tasks 
Resuming  his  place  at  the  table,  he  seized  his  pen.  Letter 
after  letter  grew  beneath  his  hands  ;  and  the  faint  gray 
light  of  the  dawn  peo.ped  in  at  the  windows  before  he  had 


211  BEAUCHAMPE. 

yet  completed  the  numerous  tasks  which  required  his  in 
dustry. 

A.  tap  at  the  door  drew  his  attention  and  he  opened  it 
lo  receive  his  friend,  Major  Hawick. 

"You  are  ready,"  said  Hawick  —  "but  you  seem  not  to 
have  slept.  How's  this  ?  You  promised  me ' 

"  But  could  not  keep  my  promise.  I  had  much  to  do, 
and  felt  that  I  could  not  sleep.  I  was  too  much  excited." 

"  That  is  unfortunate  !" 

'•'  It  will  do  no  harm.  With  my  temperament  I  do  things 
much  better  when  excited  than  not.  The  less  prepared, 
the  better  prepared." 

"  Where's  the  old  gentleman  ?" 

"lie  sleeps  still.  We  will  not  disturb  him.  We  will 
steal  out  quietly,  and  I  trust  everything  will  be  over  before 
he  wakens.  I  have  left  a  note  for  him  with  these  letters." 

But  few  moments  more  did  they  delay. 

William  Calvert  remedied  to  a  certain  extent  the  fatigue' 
of  his  night  of  unrest,  by  plunging  his  head  into  a  basin  of 
cold  water.  The  preparations  of  the  party  were  already 
made ;  and  they  issued  fortli  without  noise,  and  soon  found 
themselves  on  the  field.  Their  opponents  appeared  a  few 
moments  after. 

"  A  pleasant  morning,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Barnabas. 
"  But  how  is  it  I  do  not  see  my  old  friend  here,  eh  ?  I  had 
a  fancy  he  would  not  miss  it  for  the  world !" 

A  rustling  among  the  bushes  at  a  little  distance,  at  this 
moment,  saved  William  Calvert  from  the  necessity  of  an 
swering  the  question.  There  was  the  old  man  himself. 

"  Ah,  William  !"  he  said  reproachfully,  "  was  this  kind?" 

"  Truly,  sir,  it  was  meant  to  be  so.  I  would  have  spared 
you  this  scene  if  possible." 

"  It  was  not  kind,  William,  but  you  meant  kindly.  You 
did  not  know  me,  my  son.  Had  I  not  been  here  with  you, 
in  the  moment  of  danger,  I  should  always  have  felt  as  if  I 
bad  suffered  shame." 


-FIVE    I'AClvS WliliEL     vNL>    FIRE.  215 

The  youth  was  touched,  and  turned  aside  to  conceal  his 
emotion.  The  friends  of  the  parties  approached  in  confer 
ence.  The  irregularity  of  Major  Ha  wick's  attendance  being 
explained,  and  excused  under  the  circumstances,  he  re 
mained  as  a  mere  spectator.  The  arrangements  then  being 
under  consideration,  Mr.  Barnabas  said  casually,  and  seem 
ingly  with  much  indifference  — 

u  Well,  I  suppose,  sir,  we  will  set  them  at  twelve  paces.'' 

"  Very  singular  that  you  should  offer  a  suggestion  on  this 
subject!"  was  the  sharp  reply  of  Mr.  Calvert ;  "  this  point 
is  with  us." 

"Oh,  surely,  surely  —  but,  this  being  about  the  usual 
distance — " 

"  It  is  not  ours,  sir,"  said  the  other  coolly. 

"  What  do  you  propose,  then  ?" 

"Five  paces,  sir  —  back  to  back  —  wheel  and  fire  within 
the  words  one  and  two." 

Colonel  Sharpe,  who  heard  the  words,  started,  and  grew 
suddenly  pale. 

"  A.  most  murderous  distance,  sir,  indeed !"  said  Mr.  Bar 
nabas  gravely.  "  Are  you  serious,  sir  ?  Do  you  really 
mean  to  insist  on  what  you  say  ?" 

"  Certainly,  sir :  if  I  ever  jested  at  all,  it  should  not  be 
on  such  an  occasion.  These  are  our  terms." 

"  We  must  submit,  of  course,"  said  the  other,  as  he  pro 
ceeded  to  place  his  principal.  While  doing  this,  Colonel 
Sharpe  was  observed  to  speak  with  him  somewhat  earnestly. 
Mr.  Barnabas,  immediately  after,  again  advanced  to  Mr. 
Calvert,  and  said  :- 

"  In  consenting  to  your  right,  sir,  on  the  subject  of  dis 
tance,  I  must  at  the  same  time  protest  against  it.  The 
consequences,  sir,  must  lie  on  your  head  only.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  both  parties  will  be  blown  to  the  devil !" 

Hawick  also  approached,  and  whispered  the  elder  Cal 
vert,  in  earnest  expostulation  against  this  arrangement. 

"It  is  impossible  for  either  to  escape,"  he  said;  "they 


216  BEAUCHAMPE. 

are  both  firm  men,  and  both  will  fire  with  great  quickness. 
The  distance  is  very  unusual,  sir ;  and,  if  the  affair  ends 
fatally,  the  reproach  will  be  great." 

For  a  moment  the  old  man  hesitated,  and  looked  bewil 
dered.  His  eye  earnestly  sought  the  form  of  William  Cal- 
vert,  who  was  calmly  walking  at  a  little  distance.  He  was 
silent  for  a  few  seconds ;  but,  suddenly  recovering  himself, 
he  murmured,  rather  in  soliloquy  than  in  answer  to  his  com 
panion  : — 

"  No,  no !  it  must  be  so :  we  must  take  this  risk,  to  avoid 
a  greater.  1  sec  through  these  men  ;  there  is  no  other  way 
to  baffle  them." 

He  advanced  to  Mr.  Barnabas. 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  alter  my  arrangement.  To  a  brave 
man,  the  nearer  the  enemy  the  better." 

"  A  good  general  principle,  sir,  but  liable  to  abuse,"  said 
Barnabas  ;  "  but  as  you  please.  We  toss  for  the  word." 

The  word  fell  to  Calvert.  The  parties  were  placed, 
back  to  back,  with  a  space  of  some  ten  feet  between  — 
epacs  just  enough  for  the  grave  of  one.  With  the  word, 
which  was  rather  gasped  than  syllabled  by  the  old  man, 
William  Calvert  wheeled.  The  first  instant  glance  that 
showed  him  his  enemy  drew  his  fire,  and  was  followed  by 
that  of  his  foe. 

In  the  first  few  moments  after,  standing  himself,  and  see 
ing  his  enemy  still  stood,  he  fancied  that  no  harm  had  been 
done.  Already  the  words  were  on  his  lips  to  call  for  the 
other  pistol,  when  he  felt  a  sudden  sickness  and  dizziness; 
his  right  thigh  grew  stiffened,  and  he  lapsed  away  upon  the 
earth,  just  as  the  old  man  drew  nigh  to  his  assistance. 

The  bullet  had  entered  the  fleshy  part  of  his  hip,  and 
had  lodged  there,  narrowly  avoiding  the  bone. 

These  particulars  were  afterward  ascertained.  At  first, 
however,  the  impression  of  the  old  man,  and  that  of  Major 
Uawick,  was,  that  the  wound  was  mortal.  We  will  not 
seek  to  describe  the  mental  agony  of  the  former.  It  was 


"FIVE   PACES  — WHEEL   AND    FIRE."  217 

now  that  his  conscience  spoke  in  torturous  self-upbraidings  ; 
and,  throwing  himself  beside  the  unconscious  youth,  he 
moaned  as  one  who  would  not  be  comforted,  until  assured 
oy  the  more  closely-observing  Hawick,  who,  upon  inspect 
ing  the  wound,  gave  him  hope  of  better  things. 

Colonel  Sharpo  was  more  fortunate.  He  was  uninjured, 
but  he  had  not  escaped  untouched.  His  escape,  though 
more  complete  than  that  of  Calvert,  had  been  even  yet 
more  narrow  —  the  bullet  of  the  former  actually  barking 
his  skull  just  above  the  ear,  and  slightly  lacerating  the  skin 
over  his  organ  of  destructiveness.  So  narrow  an  escape 
made  him  very  anxious  to  avoid  a  second  experiment,  which 
William  Calvert,  feebly  striving  to  rise  from  the  ground, 
readily  offered  himself  for.  But,  while  the  youth,  spoke, 
his  strength  failed  him,  and  he  soon  sunk  away  in  utter 
unconsciousness. 

Thus  ended  an  affair  that  promised  to  be  more  bloody  in 
its  results.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been,  but  for  the  ar 
rangements  which  old  Calvert  insisted  on.  Had  the  ten 
paces  beer,  acceded,  there  is  little  doubt  that  Sharpe,  se 
cure  in  his  practice,  would  have  inflicted  a  death-wound  on 
his  opponent.  The  alteration  of  distance,  the  necessity  of 
wheeling  to  fire,  and  a  proximity  to  his  enemy  so  close  as 
to  leave  skill  but  low  if  any  advantages,  served  to  disorder 
his  aim,  and  impair  his  coolness.  It  was  with  no  small 
degree  of  satisfaction  that  he  departed,  leaving  his  enemy 
kors  dc  combat.  We,  too,  shall  leave  him,  and  follow  the 
progress  of  the  more  fortunate  party ;  assured,  as  we  are,. 
that  the  wound  of  our  young  hero,  though  serious,  is  not 
dangerous,  and  that  he  is  in  the  hands  of  those  who  will 
refine  sleep  to  their  eyelids  so  long  as  he  needs  that  they 
should  watch. 

it  will  not  materially  affect  the  value  of  this  narrative  to 
omit  all  further  account  of  that  political  canvassing  by 
which  these  parties  were  brought  into  a  juxtaposition  so 
fruitful  of  unexpected  consequences.  It  will  suffice  to  say 


218  BEAUCHAMPE. 

that,  with  Calvert  removed  from  the  stump,  Colonel  Sharpe 
remained  master  of  it.  His  eloquence  that  day  seemed  far 
more  potential,  indeed,  than  on  ordinary  occasions.  No 
doubt  lie  tried  his  best,  in  order  to  do  away  with  what 
Calvert  had  previously  succeeded  in  doing ;  but  there  was 
an  eclat  about  his  morning's  work  which  materially  assisted 
the  working  of  his  eloquence.  The  proceedings  of  the  pre 
vious  night,  and  the  duel  which  succeeded  it,  were  prettj 
well  bruited  abroad  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours ;  and  when 
a  man  passes  with  success  from  the  field  of  battle  to  the 
field  of  debate,  and  proves  himself  equally  the  master  in 
both,  vulgar  wonder  knows  little  stint,  and  suffers  little 
qualification  from  circumstances.  Nay,  the  circumstances 
themselves  are  usually  perverted  to  suit  the  results  ;  and, 
in  this  case,  the  story,  by  the  zeal  of  Sharpo's  friends,  so 
far  from  showing  that  the  quarrel  grew  from  the  facts  which 
did  occasion  it,  was  made  to  have  a  political  origin  entirely 
—  Sharpe  being  the  champion  of  one,  and  Calvert  of  the 
other  party. 

It  may  be  readily  conjectured  that  Sharpe  hiuiseif  gave 
as  much  encouragement  to  this  report  as  possible.  Bold 
as  he  might  be,  he  was  not  altogether  prepared  to  encoun 
ter  the  odium  to  which  any  notoriety  given  to  the  true 
state  of  the  case  would  necessarily  subject  him.  His  par 
tisans  easily  took  their  cue  from  him,  and  were  willing  tc 
accept  the  affair  as  a  sign  of  promise  in  the  political  con 
test  which  was  to  ensue.  We  may  add  that  it  was  no  un 
happy  augury.  The  friends  of  Sharpe  were  triumphant, 
and  Desha — one  of  those  mauvaise  sujets  which  a  time  of 
great  moral  ferment  in  a  country  throws  upon  the  surface, 
like  scum  upon  the  waters  when  they  are  broken  up  by 
floods,  and  rush  beyond  their  appointed  boundaries  —  was 
elevated,  most  unhappily,  to  the  executive  chair  of  the  state. 

Thus  much  is  perhaps  essential  to  what  should  be  known 
of  these  matters  in  the  progress  of  our  story.  How  much 
of  this  result  was  due  to  (ho  unfortunate  termination  of 


"FIVE  PACES — WHEEL  AND  FIRE."        219 

Cdlvert's  affair  with  Sharpe,  is  difficult  to  determine.  The 
friends  of  the  former  ascribed  their  defeat  to  his  wounds, 
which  disabled  him  from  the  prosecution  of  that  canvass 
through  the  state  which  had  been  so  profitably  begun.  They 
were  baffled  and  dispirited.  Their  strong  man  was  low; 
and,  gratified  with  successes  already  won,  and  confident  of 
the  future,  Colonel  Sharpe  closed  the  night  at  Bowling- 
Green  by  communicating  to  Bcauchampe,  by  letter,  his  pur 
pose  of  visiting  him  on  his  return  route  —  an  honor  which, 
strange  enough  to  Bcauchampe  himself,  did  not  afford  him 
that  degree  of  satisfaction  which  it  seemed  to  him  was  only 
natural  that  it  should. 


22C  BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE   SPECK    OF    CLOUD    UPON   THE   SKY    OF    HAPPINESS. 

BEAUCHAMPE  and  his  wife  sat  together  beside  the  opcL 
window.  It  was  night  —  a  soft  mellowing  light  fell  upon 
the  trees  and  herbage,  and  the  breeze  mildly  blew  in  pleas 
ant  gushes  about  the  apartment.  In  the  room  was  no  light. 
Her  hand  was  in  his.  Her  manner  was  thoughtful,  and, 
when  she  spoke,  her  words  were  low  and  subdued  as  if,  in 
her  abstract  mood,  it  needed  some  effort  of  her  lips  to 
speak. 

Beauchampe  himself  was  mure  moody  than  his  wont,. 
There  is  always,  in  the  heart  of  one  conscious  of  the  recent 
possession  of  a  new  and  strongly-desired  object,  a  feeling 
of  uncertainty.  Even  the  most  sanguine  temperament, 
feels,  at  times,  unassured  of  its  own  blessings.  Perhaps, 
such  feelings  of  doubt  and  incertitude  arc  intended  to  give 
us  a  foretaste  of  those  final  privations  to  which  life  is 
everywhere  certainly  subject;  and  to  reconcile  us,  by  nat 
ural  degrees,  to  the  last  dread  separation  in  death.  At  all 
events  nothing  can  be  more  natural  than  such  feelings.  Our 
hearts  faint  with  fear  in  the  very  moment  when  we  are  rev 
elling  in  the  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss  !  When  Love, 
hooded  and  fettered,  refuses  to  quit  his  cage  —  when  every 
dream  appears  satisfied  ;  when  peace,  fostered  by  security, 
seems  to  smile  in  the  conviction  of  a  reality  which  prom 
ises  fullest  pcrmnnencc  ;  and  the  imagination  knows  noth 
ing  to  crave,  and  even  egotism  loses  its  strong  passion  for 


SPECK    OP   CLOUD    ON    THE   SKY    OF    HAPPINESS.         221 

complaint ;  even  then  we  shudder,  as  with  an  instinct  that 
teaches  much  more   than  any  thought,  and  knocks  more 
oudly  at  the  door  of  the  heart,  than  any  of  its  more  reason 
able  apprehensions. 

This  instinct  wa?  at  work,  at  the  same  moment,  in  both 
their  bosoms. 

"  1  know  not  why  it  is,"  said  Bcauchampe,  "  but  I  feel 
as  if  something  were  to  happen.  I  feel  unaccountably  sad 
and  apprehensive.  It  is  not  a  fear  —  scarcely  a  doubt,  that 
rills  my  mind  —  nay,  for  that  matter  my  mind  is  silent  —  I 
strive  to  think  in  vain.  It  is  a  sort  of  voice  from  the  soul 
—  a  presentiment  of  evil  —  more  like  a  dream  in  its  ap 
proaches,  and  yet,  in  its  influence,  more  real,  more  em 
phatic,  than  any  actual  voice  speaking  to  my  outward  ears. 
Do  you  ever  have  such  feelings,  Anna  1" 

"  I  have  them  now  /"  she  answered  in  low  tones. 

u  Indeed  !  it  is  very  strange  !" 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  waist  as  he  spoke,  and  drew 
her  closer  to  himself.  Her  head  sunk  upon  his  shoulder, 
lie  did  not  behold  them,  but  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 

How  strange  were  such  tears  to  her !  How  suddenly 
had  she  undergone  a  change  —  and  such  a  change!  She 
who  had  never  known  fear,  was  now  timid  as  a  child. 
Love  is,  before  all,  the  great  subduer.  It  was  in  an  un 
known  condition  of  peace  and  pleasure  that  the  wife  of 
Beaucharnpe  had  become  softened.  Apprehension  necessa 
rily  succeeds  to  conquest.  There  is  no  courage  so  cool  and 
collected  as  that  which  has  nothing  to  lose ;  and  timidity 
naturally  grows  from  a  consciousness  of  large,  valuable, 
and  easily  endangered  possessions.  Such  was  the  origin 
of  the  fear  in  the  bosoms  of  both. 

Certainly  they  had  much  to  lose !  Happiness  is  always 
an  unstable  possession,  and  we  know  this  by  instinct.  The 
union  of  the  two  had  perfected  the  union  of  the  two  families. 
Mrs.  Beauchampe,  the  elder,  in  the  very  obvious  and  re- 


222  BEAUCHAMPE. 

markable  change  of  manner,  whicli  followed  the  marriage 
of  Miss  Cooke  with  her  son,  had  become  reconciled  —  nay. 
pleased  with  the  match.  Mary  Bcauchampe  was  of  course 
all  joy  and  all  tears ;  and  even  Jane,  escaped  from  the  firs', 
danger  of  being  swallowed  up,  was  gradually  brought  to 
see  the  intellectual  beauties,  and  the  personal  also,  of  her 
brother's  wife,  without  beholding  her  sterner  aspects. 

For  the  present,  Beauchampe  lived  with  his  wife's  mother, 
but  the  two  families  were  too-other  daily.  They  walked, 
rode,  sang,  read,  and  played  together.  They  made  a  little 
world  to  themselves,  and  they  were  so  happy  in  it !  The 
tastes  of  Bcauchampe  gradually  became  more  and  more  re 
fined  and  elevated  under  the  nicer  sway  of  feminine  taste, 
and  those  delicacies  of  direction  which  none  can  so  well 
impart  as  a  highly-intellectual  woman.  He  no  longer 
dreamed  of  such  ordinary  distinctions  as  make  up  the  small 
hopes  of  witling  politicians.  To  be  the  great  bell-wether 
of  a  clamorous  flock,  for  a  season,  did  not  now  constitute 
the  leading  object  of  his  ambition.  Far  from  it.  A  short 
month  of  communion  with  an  enthusiastic,  high-souled 
woman  —  unhappy,  perhaps,  that  she  was  so  —  had  wrought 
as  decided  a  change  in  his  moral  nature,  as  the  love  which 
he  brought  had  operated  upon  hers.  They  were  both 
changed.  But  it  needs  not  that  we  should  dwell  upon  the 
power  of  Love  to  tame,  and  subject,  and  elevate  the  base 
and  stubborn  nature.  Surely  it  is  no  mere  fable,  rightly 
read,  which  makes  him  lead  the  lion  witli  a  thread.  Briefly, 
there  is  no  human  beast  that  he  can  not,  with  the  same 
ease,  subdue. 

Before  meeting  with  his  wife,  however,  Beauchampe  was 
superior  in  moral  respects  to  his  associates.  This  must  be 
understood.  He  had  strength  of  mind  and  ambition  ;  he 
was  generous,  free  in  hi?  impulses,  and  usually  more  gentle 
in  their  direction  than  was  the  case  with  his  companions. 
His  rudenesses  were  those  of  the  rustic,  whose  sensibilities 
yet  sleep  in  his  soul,  like  the  undiscovered  gold  in  the  dark 


SPECK    OF    CLOUD    ON   THE   SKY    OP    HAPPINESS. 

places  of  the  sullen  mountain.  It  was  for  Love  to  detect 
the  slight  vein  leading  to  these  recesses,  and  to  refine  the 
treasure  to  which  it  led.  Great,  in  matters  of  this  sort,  is 
that  grand  alchemist.  The  model  of  refiners  is  he  !  No 
Rosicruciai;  ever  did  so  much  to  turn  the  baser  metal  into 
gold.  Unhappily,  as  in  the  case  of  other  seekers  after 
projection,  it  is  sometimes  the  case  that  the  grand  experi 
ment  finishes  infumo,  and  possibly  with  a  loud  explosion. 

But  it  iloes  not  become  us  to  jest  in  this  stage  of  our 
narrative  Too  sad,  too  serious,  are  the  feelings  with 
which  we  new  must  deal.  If  Beauchampe  and  his  wife  are 
happy,  they  are  so  in  the  activity  and  excitement  of  those 
sensibilities  which  are  the  most  liable  to  overthrow.  In 
proportion  to  the  exquisite  sweetness  of  the  sensation,  is  its 
close  approximation  to  the  borders  of  pain.  The  joy'of  the 
soul  which  ia  the  source  of  all  the  raptures  of  love,  is  itself 
a  joy  of  sadness,  and  yearning  and  excessive  apprehension. 
Soon  does  this  apprehension  rise  to  cloud  the  pleasure  and 
oppress  the  hope.  This  is  the  origin  of  those  presenti 
ments,  which  say  what  our  thoughts  can  not  say,  and  in 
spite  of  our  thoughts.  They  grew  in  the  bosom  of  Beau 
champe  and  his  wife,  along  with  the  necessity  which  he 
felt  and  had  declared,  of  assuming  vigorously  the  duties  of 
his  profession.  These  duties  required  that  lie  should  move 
into  a  more  buoy  sphere,  and  this  duty  involved  the  removal 
of  his  wife  from  that  seclusion  in  which,  for  the  last  five 
years,  her  sensibilities  had  found  safety.  This,  to  her,  was 
a  source  of  terror ;  and  she  trembled  with  a  singular  fear 
lest,  in  doing  so  —  in  going  once  more  out  into  the  world 
she  had  left,  she  should  encounter  her  betrayer. 

Very  different  now  were  her  feelings  toward  Alfred 
Stevens.  For  five  years  had  she  treasured  the  one  vindio 
tive  hope  of  meeting  him  with  the  purpose  of  revenge.  For 
five  years  had  she  moulded  the  bullets,  and  addressed  them 
to  the  mark  which  symbolized  his  breast.  Her  chief  prayer 
in  all  this  time,  was,  that  sho  might  behold  him  with  power 


224  BEAUCHAMPE. 

to  employ  upon  him  the  skill  which  she  had  daily  shovr. 
upon  the  insensible  trees  of  the  forest.  To  kill  him,  and 
then  to  die,  was  all  that  she  had  prayed  for  —  and  now  tha 
difference ! 

In  one  little  month  all  this  had  undergone  a  change.  Her 
feelings  had  once  more  been  humanized  —  perhaps  we  should 
Siiy  ivomanizcd :  for,  in  these  respects,  women  are  rnor$ 
capricious  than  men,  and  the  transitions  of  love  to  hate,  and 
hate  to  love,  are  much  more  rapid  in  the  case  of  a  grown 
woman  than  in  that  of  a  grown  man.  As  for  boys,  until 
twenty-five,  they  are  perhaps  little  more  than  girls  in 
breeches  —  certainly  they  are  quite  as  capricious.  The  ex 
perience  of  five  years  after  twenty-five  does  more  to  harden 
the  sensibilities  of  a  man,  than  any  other  ten  years  of  bis 
life. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  change  in  this  respect  which 
Beauchampe's  wife  had  undergone.  Not  to  meet  Stevens 
was  now  her  prayer.  True,  she  had  sworn  her  husband, 
if  they  did  meet,  to  take  his  life.  But  that  had  been  the 
condition  of  her  hand — that  was  before  he  had  become  her 
husband  —  before  she  well  knew  his  value  —  before  she 
could  think  upon  the  risks  which  she  herself  would  incur, 
by  the  danger  which,  in  the  prosecution  of  this  pledge, 
would  necessarily  accrue  to  him.  Nor  was  her  change  of 
character  less  decided  in  another  grand  essential.  In 
learning  to  forget  and  forgive,  she  had  also  learned  to  forego 
the  early  dreams  with  which  her  ambitious  mind  com 
menced  its  progress. 

"  You  speak  of  fame,  Beauchampe,"  she  said,  even  while 
sitting  as  we  have  described,  in  the  darkness,  looking  forth 
upon  the  faint  light  which  the  stars  shed  upon  the  garden- 
shrubbery :  "you  speak  of  fame,  Beauchampe  —  oh  !  how  I 
once  dreamed  of  it !  Now,  I  care  for  it  nothing.  Rather, 
indeed,  should  I  prefer,  if  we  could  remain  here,  out  of  the 
world's  eye,  living  to  ourselves,  and  secure  from  that  opin 
ion  which  we  are  too  apt  to  seek  ;  upon  which  we  too  much 


SPECK    OF   CLOUD    ON    THE   SKY   OF    HAPPINESS.         225 

depend — which  does  net  confer  fame,  and  but  too  often 
robs  us  of  happiness.  It  is  my  presentiment,  on  this  very 
subject,  which  makes  me  dread  the  removal  to  Frankfort 
which  you  contemplate." 

"  And  yet,"  said  he,  "  I  know  not  how  we  can  avoid  it. 
It  seems  necessary." 

"  I  believe  it,  and  do  not  mean  to  urge  you  against  it.  I 
only  wish  that  it  were  not  necessary.  But,  being  so,  I  will 
go  with  you  cheerfully.  I  am  not  daunted  by  the  prospect, 
though  it  oppresses  me.  How  much  more  happy,  if  we 
could  live  here  always  !" 

"  No,  no,  Anna,  you  would  soon  sicken  of  this.  You 
would  ask,  '  Why  have  I  married  this  rustic  ?'  You  will 
hear  of  the  great  men  around,  and  will  say,  <  He  might 
have  been  one  of  them  '  Your  pride  is  greater  than  you 
believe ;  you  are  not  GO  thoroughly  cured  of  your  ambition 
as  you  think." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  am  !  I  look  back  to  the  days  when  I  had 
a  passion  for  fame  as  to  a  period  when  I  was  under  mono 
mania.  Truly,  it  was  a  monomania.  0  Beauchampe,  had 
you  known  me  then  !" 

"-  Why  had  I  not  ?  We  had  been  so  happy  then,  Anna — 
we  had  saved  so  many  days  of  bliss,  and  then  —  but  it  is 
act  too  late !  Anna,  there  is  no  good  reason  why  a  genius 
such  as  yours  should  be  obscured  —  lost  for  ever.  The 
world  must  know  it,  and  worship  it !" 

"The  world  ?  —  oh,  never  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  shud 
der.  "  The  world  is  my  terror  now.  Would  we  could 
never  know  it !" 

"  But  why  these  scruples,  dearest  ?" 

"  Why  ?  Can  you  ask,  Beauchampe  ?  Do  you  forget 
what  I  have  been  —  what  I  am?" 

:(  You  are  my  wife,  and  I  am  a  man.  Do  you  think  the 
«rorld  will  venture  to  speak  a  word  which  shall  shame  or 
annoy  you  ?" 

"  It  is  not  in  its  speech,  but  in  its  knowledge  /" 

0* 


226  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  But  what  will  it  know  ?     Nothing.' 

"  Unless  we  meet  with  him  /" 

"And  if  we  do?—" 

"  Ah  !  let  us  speak  of  it  no  more,  Beauchampe/' 

"  One  word  only !  If  we  meet  with  him.  he  dies,  and  is 
thus  silenced  !  Will  it  be  likely  that  he  will  speak  of  that, 
which  only  incurs  the  penalty  of  death  ?" 

"Enough!  enough!  The  very  inquiry  —  the  conjecture 
which  you  utter,  Bcauchampc  —  is  conclusive  with  me  that 
I  should  not  go  into  the  world.  With  you.  as  your  wife  — 
humble,  shrinking  out  of  sight,  solicitous  only  of  obscurity, 
and  toiling  only  for  your  applause  and  love  —  I  shall  be 
permitted  to  pass  without  indignity  —  without  waking  up 
that  many-tongued  slanderer  that  lies  ever  in  wait,  dogging 
the  footsteps  of  ambition.  Were  I  now  to  seek  the  praises 
which  you  and  others  have  thought  due  to  my  genius,  I 
should  incur  the  hostility  of  the  foul-mouthed  and  the  envi 
OU3.  No  moment  of  my  life  would  be  secure  from  suspi 
cion,  no  movement  of  my  mind  safe  from  the  assaults  of  the 
caviller.  It  is  one  quality  of  error  —  nay,  even  of  misfor 
tune —  to  betray  itself  wherever  it  goes.  The  proverb  telb 
us  that  murder  will  have  a  tongue :  it  appears  to  me,  that 
all  crimes  will  reveal  themselves  in  some  way,  some  day  or 
other.  Better,  Beauchanipe,  that  I  remain  unseen,  un 
known,  than  be  known  as  I  am  ! — " 

"  Better  ?  —  but  this  can  not  be  ;  you  must  be  seen — you 
will  be  known !  The  world  will  seek  you,  to  admire.  Re 
member,  Anna,  that  I  have  friends  —  numerous  friends; 
among  them  are  some  of  the  ablest  men  of  our  profession  — 
of  any  profession.  There  is  no  man  better  able  than  this 
very  gentleman,  Colonel  Sharpe,  to  appreciate  a  genius  such 
as  yours." 

"Do  not  mock  me  with  such  langaage.  Beauchainpe! 
Instead  of  thinking  of  the  world's  admiration,  I  should  be 
thinking  only  of  its  possible  discoveries.  As  for  Colonel 
Sharpe,  somehow  I  have  tin  impression — gathered,  1  know 


not  how,  but  possibly  from  his  letters  —  that  he  lacks  sin 
cerity.  There  is  a  tone  of  skepticism  and  levity  about  his 
language  which  displeases  and  pains  me.  lie  lacks  heart. 
I  only  wonder  how  you  should  have  sought  your  professional 
knowledge  at  his  hands." 

"You  forget,  Anna,  that  I  sought  nothing  at  his  hands 
cut  professional  knowledge ;  and  most  persons  will  tell  you 
that  I  could  scarcely  have  sought  it  anywhere  with  greatci 
prospect  of  finding  it.  He  is  one  of  our  best  lawyers.  As 
a  man,  frankly  I  confess  to  you,  lie  is  not  one  whom  I  ad 
mire.  You  seem  to  me  to  have  hit  his  right  character. 
He  has  always  seemed  to  lack  sincerity ;  and  this  impres 
sion,  which  he  made  upon  me  at  a  very  early  period,  has 
always  kept  me  from  putting  more  of  my  heart  within  his 
power  than  was  absolutely  unavoidable." 

"  Ah,.  Beauchampe,  a  man  of  your  earnest  temperament 
knows  not  how  much  he  gives.  You  carry  your  heart  too 
much  in  your  eyes  —  in  your  hand.  This  is  scarcely  good 
policy." 

"  With  T/OW,  dearest,  it  was  the  only  policy,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile,  while  he  pressed  her  closer  to  his  bosom. 

"Ah!  with  me?  —  But  that  is  yet  to  be  determined. 
You  know  not  yet." 

"  What !  are  you  not  mine  ?  Do  I  not  feel  you  in  iny 
arms  ?  do  I  not  embrace  you  ?" 

"  It  may  be  that  you  embrace  death,  Beauchampe !"' 

"  Speak  not  so  gloomily,  my  love.  Why  «hould  you 
yield  yourself  to  such  vague  and  nameless  apprehensions  ? 
There  is  nothing  to  cloud  our  prospect,  which,  when  I  think, 
seems  all  bright  and  cloudless  as  the  night  we  gaze  on !" 

"Ah!  when  you  think,  Beauchampe :  but  thought  is  no 
seer,  though  an  active  speculator.  You  forget  these  in 
stincts,  Beauchampe  —  these  presentiments!" 

"  I  have  forgotten  mine,"  he  answered,  livelily. 

"  Ah  !  but  mine  depart  not  so  soon.  They  rise  still,  and 
will  continue  to  rise." 


228  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  You  brood  over  —  you  encourage  them." 

"  No  !  but  they  seem  a  part  of  me.  I  have  always  had 
them,  even  in  the  days  of  my  greatest  exultation ;  when,  in 
truth,  I  had  no  cares  to  suggest  them.  They  have  marked 
and  preceded,  like  omens,  all  my  misfortunes.  Should  I 
not  fear  them,  then  ?" 

"Not  now:  it  is  only  the  old  habit  of  your  mind  which 
is  no\v  active.  Gloomy  thoughts  and  complaining  accents 
become  habitual ;  and,  even  when  the  sun  shines,  the  eye, 
long  accustomed  to  the  cloud,  still  fancies  that  it  beholds 
it  gathering  blackly  in  the  distance.  Now.  you  arc  secure. 
Your  cloud  i«  gone,  dearest  —  never,  never  to  return." 

"See  where  it  rises,  Beau  chain  pe,  an  image  on  the  night! 
How  ominous,  were  these  days  of  superstition,  would  that 
dark  image  be  of  our  fortunes !  Even  as  you  spoke,  with 
such  constant  assurance,  the  evening-star  grew  faint.  Love's 
own  star  waned  in  the  growing  darkness  of  the  west ;  love's 
own  star  seemed  to  shroud  itself  in  gloom  at  the  prediction 
which  so  soon  may  bo  rendered  false.  Look  how  fast  is 
the  ascent  of  that  gloomy  tabernacle  of  the  storm  !  Not 
one  of  the  lovely  lights  in  that  quarter  of  the  sky  remains 
to  cheer  us.  Even  thus,  have  the  lights  of  my  hope  for 
ever  gone  out.  That  first  light  of  my  soul,  which  was  the 
morning-star  of  my  being  —  its  insane  passion  for  fame  — 
was  thus  obscured.  Then,  the  paler  gleams  of  evening, 
which  denoted  love ;  and  how  fast,  after,  followed  all  that 
troop  of  smaller  lights  which  betokened  the  dreams  and 
hopes  of  a  warm  and  throbbing  heart!  Ah,  Beaucharapc ! 
faded,  stricken  out,  not  one  by  one,  as  the  joys  and  hopes 
of  others,  but  with  a  sudden  eclipse  that  swept  all  their 
delusive  legions  at  a  moment  out  of  sight — never,  never  to 
return  !" 

"  ?ay  not,  never!" 

"  Ab  !  it  is  my  fear  which  speaks—  the  long  sense  of 
desolation  and  dread  which  has  rnmlo  up  so  many  years  of 
my  life!  —  it  is  this  which  makes  mo  speak,  from  a  con  vie- 


SPECK    OF    CLOUD    ON   THE   SKY    OF    HAPPINESS.         229 

tion  of  the  past,  with  a  dark,  prophetic  apprehension  of  the 
future.  True,  that  the  love  blesses  me  now  —  a  delusive 
image  of  which  defrauded  me  before — but  how,  with  the 
sudden  rising  of  that  cloud  before  my  eyes,  r±ven  in  the 
hour  of  your  boastful  speech  and  perhaps  my  no  less  boastfal 
hope  —  how  can  I  else  believe  than  that  another  delusion,  no 
less  fatal  than  the  past,  though  now  untouched  with  shame, 
has  found  its  way  to  my  heart,  beguiling  me  with  hope,  only 
to  sink  me  in  despair  ?" 

"  Ah  !  why  such  speech,  Anna  ?  my  love  is  no  delusion," 
said  the  husband  reproachfully. 

"I  meant  not  that,  Beauchampe  —  I  believe  not  that. 
•  Heaven  knows  I  hold  it  as  a  truth  —  and  the  sweetest 
truth  that  my  soul  has  ever  known  in  its  human  experi 
ence.  But  for  its  permanence  I  feared.  I  doubted  not 
that  the  light  was  pure  and  perfect ;  but,  alas  !  I  knew  not 
'how  soon  it  might  go  out.  I  felt  that  it  was  a  bright  star 
shining  down  upon  my  soul ;  but  I  also  feel  that  there  is  a 
gloomy  storm  rising  to  obscure  the  star,  and  leave  me  in  a 
darkness  more  complete  than  ever.  0  Beauchampe  !  if  we 
should  ever  meet  that  man — " 

^  He  dies,  Anna  !" 

"  Oh,  no  !     I  mean  not  that." 

"  Have  I  not  sworn  ?" 

"  Yes !  but  the  exaction  of  that  oath  was  in  my  madness 
—  it  was  impious  :  I  shudder  but  to  think  of  it.  May  you 
never,  never  meet  with  him." 

"  Amen  !     I  trust  that  we  may  never  !" 

"  Could  I  but  be  sure  of  that !" 

"Let  it  not  trouble  you,  dearest:  we  may  never  meet 
with  him." 

"  Ay,  but  we  may ;  and  the  doubt  of  that  dreadful  possi 
bility,  flings  a  gloomy  shadow  over  the  dear,  sweet  reality 
of  the  present." 

"  Be  of  better  cheer,  my  heart.  You  are  mine.  You 
know  that  nothing  is  left  lor  me  to  learn.  You  look  to  me 


230  BKAUCHAMPE. 

for  love  —  you  dope' d  not  upon  the  world,  but  upon  me. 
That  world,  as  it  can  teach  me  nothing  of  your  value,  that 
can  make  the  smallest  approach  to  the  certainties  which  ] 
feel,  so  it  can  report  nothing  in  your  disparagement  which 
your  own  lips  have  not  already  spoken.  Why  then  should 
you  fear  ?  At  the  worst,  we  can  only  sink  out  of  the 
world's  sight  when  its  looks  irk,  or  its  tones  annoy  us." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  not  so  easy,  Beauchampc.  Once  out  of  the 
world's  eye,  nothing  is  so  easy  as  to  remain  so.  But  the 
world  pursues  the  person  who  has  challenged  its  regard  ; 
and  haunts  the  dwelling  where  it  fancies  it  may  find  a  spot 
of  shame.  Besides,  is  not  your 'fame  precious  to  me  as  well 
as  to  yourself.  This  profession  of  yours,  more  than  an)\ 
other  in  our  country,  is  that  which  concentrates  upon  itself 
the  public  gaze.  When  you  have  won  this  gaze,  Beau- 
champe,  when  you  have  controlled  the  eager  ears  of  an 
audience,  and  commanded  the  admiration  of  an  admiring* 
multitude  —  if,  at  this  moment,  some  slanderous  finger 
should  guide  the  eye  of  the  spectator  from  the  command 
ing  eminence  of  the  orator  to  the  form  of  her  who  awaits 
him  at  home,  and  say, '  What  pity  !'  Ah  !  Beauchampc  ! — " 

"  Speak  of  it  no  more,"  said  Beauchampe,  and  there  was 
a  faintness  in  his  accents  while  he  spoke,  that  made  it  cer 
tain  that  he  felt  annoyance  from  the  suggestion.  Unwit 
tingly,  she  sighed,  as  her  keen  instinct  detected  the  feeling 
which  her  words  had  inspired.  Beauchampe  drew  her 
closer  to  him,  forced  her  upon  his  knee,  and  sought,  by  the 
adoption  of  a  tone  and  words  of  better  assurance,  to  do 
away  with  the  gloomy  presentiments  under  which  her  mood 
was  evidently  and  painfully  struggling. 

"I  tell  you,  Anna,  these  are  childish  fancies!  —  at  the 
worst,  mere  womanish  fears  !  Believe  me,  when  I  tell  you, 
lhat  the  days  shall  now  be  bright  before  you.  You  have- 
had  your  share  of  the  cloud.  There  is  no  lot  utterly  void 
and  dark.  God  balances  our  fortunes  with  singular  equality, 
N-oue  are  all  prosperous --none  are  all  unfortunate.  If  the 


SPECK    OF    CLOUD    ON    THE   SKY    OF    HAPPINESS.  231 

youth  be  one  of  gloom  and  trial,  the  manhood  is  likely  to  be 
bright  and  cheerful ;  while  he,  who  in  youth  has  known 
sunshine  only,  will,  in  turn,  most  probably  be  compelled  to 
taste  the  cup  of  bitterness  for  which  he  is  wholly  unpre 
pared.  It  is  perhaps  fortunate  for  all  to  whom  the  bitter 
ness  of  this  cup  becomes,  in  youth,  familiar.  At  the  worst, 
if  still  compelled  to  drink  of  it,  the  taste  is  more  certainly 
reconciled  to  its  ungracious  flavor.  That  you  have  had 
this  poisoned  chalice  cotnnfended  to  your  lips  in  youth,  is 
perhaps  something  of  a  guaranty  that  you  shall  escape  the 
draught  hereafter.  So  far  from  the  past,  therefore,  Hing 
ing  its  huge  dark  shadow  upon  the  future,  it  should  be  re 
garded  as  a  solemn  background,  which,  by  contrast,  shall 
reflect  more  brightly  than  were  it  not  present,  the  gay, 
gladdening  lights  which  shall  gather  and  burn  about  your 
pathway.  I  tell  you,  dearest,  I  know  this  shall  be  the  case, 
You  have  outlived  the  storm — you  shall  now  have  sunny 
skies  and  smooth  seas.  Neither  this  beauty  which  I  call 
my  own,  nor  these  talents  which  are  GO  certainly  yours, 
shall  be  doomed  to  the  obscurity  to  which  your  unnecessary 
fears  would  assign  them.  I  tell  you  I  shall  yet  behold  you, 
glowing  among,  and  above,  the  ambitious  circle.  I  shall 
yet  hear  the  rich  words  of  your  song  floating  through  the 
charmed  assembly,  at  once  startling  the  soul  and  soothing 
the  still  ear  of  admiration.  Come,  come  —  fling  aside  this 
shadow  from  your  heart,  and  let  it  show  itself  in  ail  its 
glory.  Look  your  best  smiles,  my  love —  and  —  will  you 
not  sing  me  now  one  of  those  proud  songs,  which  you  sang 
for  me  the  other  night — one  of  these  which  tell  me  how 
proud,  how  ambitious  was  your  genius  in  the  days  of  ycur 
girlhood?  Do  not  deny  me.  Anna.  Sing  for  me — sing 
for  me  one  of  those  songs/' 

She  began  a  strain,  though  \vith  reluctance,  which  de 
clared  all  the  audacious  egotism  which  is  usually  felt,  if  not 
always  expressed,  by  the  ardent  and  conscious  poet.  The 
fame  for  which  she  had  once  vearned — the  wild  dreams 


232  BEAUCHAMPE. 

which  once  possessed  her  imagination  and  influenced  her 
hope — were  poured  forth  in  one  of  those  irregular  floods 
of  harmony — at  once  abrupt  and  musical — which  never 
issue  from  the  lips  of  the  mere  instructed  minstrel.  Truly, 
it  might  have  awakened  the  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death  ; 
and  the  heart  of  Beauchainpe  bounded  and  struggled  with 
in  him,  not  capable  of  action,  yet  full,  as  it  seemed,  of  a 
most  impatient  discontent.  Wrought  up  to  that  enthusi 
asm  of  which  his  earnest  nature  was  easily  susceptible,  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms  almost  crc  the  strain  was  ended,  and 
the  thought  which  filled  his  mind,  arising  from  the  admira 
tion  which  he  felt,  was  that  which  told  him  what  a  sin  it 
would  be,  if  such  genius  should  be  kept  from  its  fitting  ut 
terance  before  admiring  thousands.  The  language  of  eulogy 
which  he  had  used  to  her  a  few  moments  before  was  no 
longer  that  of  hyperbole  ;  and,  releasing  her  from  his 
grasp,  while  she  concluded  the  strain,  he  paced  the  floor 
of  the  apartment,  meditating  with  the  vain  pride  of  an 
adoring  lover,  upon  the  sensation  which  such  a  song,  and  so 
sung,  would  occasion  in  the  souls  of  any  audience. 

The  strain  ceased.  The  silence  which  followed,  though 
deep  and  breathless,  was  momentary  ouly.  A  noise  of  ap 
proaching  horses  was  heard  at  the  entrance  ;  and  the  pre 
scient  heart  of  the  wife  sunk  within  her.  She  felt  as  if 
this  visit  were  a  foretaste  of  that  world  which  she  feared  ; 
and,  hurrying  up  to  her  chamber,  while  Beauchampe  went 
to  the  entrance,  she  endeavored,  by  a  brief  respite  from  the 
trials  of  reception — and  in  solitude  —  to  prepare  her  mind 
for  an  encounter,  the  anticipated  annoyance  from  which 
was,  however,  of  a  very  different  character  from  that  to 
which  she  was  really  destined. 


TiiL   SX1KE    ONCE    MOKE    IN    THK   GARDEN. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE  SNAKE  ONCE  MORE  IN  THE  GARDEN. 

SHE  was  not  suffered  to  remain  long  in  suspense.  The 
first  accents  of  the  strange  voice  addressing  her  husband 
at  the  door,  and  which  reached  her  ears  in  her  chamber, 
proved  the  speaker  to  be  no  stranger.  Fearfully  her  heart 
sank  within  her  as  she  heard  it.  The  voice  was  that  of 
Alfred  Stevens  !  Five  years  had  elapsed  since  she  had 
heard  it  last,  yet  its  every  tone  was  intelligible ;  clear  as 
then  ;  distinct,  unaltered  —  in  every  syllable  the  same  utter 
ance  of  the  same  wily  assassin  of  innocence  and  love  ! 

What  were  her  emotions  ?  It  were  in  vain  to  attempt  to 
describe  them —  there  is  no  need  of  analysis.  There  was 
nothing  compounded  in  them  —  there  was  no  mystery  !  The 
pang  and  the  feeling  were  alike  simple.  Eler  sensations 
were  those  of  unmitigated  horror.  u  One  stupid  moment, 
motionless,  she  stood,"  then  sunk  upon  her  knees !  Her 
hands  were  clasped  —  her  eyes  lifted  to  heaven  —  but  she 
could  not  praj.  "  God  be  with  me  !"  was  her  only  broken 
ejaculation,  and  the  words  choked  her. 

The  trial  had  come  !  Her  head  throbbed  almost  to  burst- 
ing.  She  clasped  it  with  her  cold  hands.  It  felt  as  if  the 
bony  mansion  could  not  much  longer  contain  the  fermenting 
and  striving  mass  within.  Yet  she  had  to  struggle.  It 
was  necessary  tuat  the  firm  soul  should  not  yield,  and  hers 
was  really  no  feeble  one.  Striving  a,nd  struggling  to  sup 
press  the  feeling  of  horror  which  every  moment  threatened 


234 

to  burst,  she  could  readily  comprehend  the  relief  that  nature 
could  afford  her — could  she  only  break  forth  in  hysterical 
convulsions.  But  these  convulsions  would  be  fatal — not  to 
herself — not  to  life,  perhaps,  for  that  was  not  now  a  sub 
ject  of  apprehension.  It  would  endanger  her  secret !  That 
was  now  her  fear. 

To  preserve  her  equilibrium  —  to  suppress  the  torments 
and  the  troubles  of  her  soul  —  to  keep  Beauchampc  from  the 
knowledge  that  the  man  he  had  sworn  to  slay  was  his 
friend,  and  was  even  now  a  guest  upon  his  threshold — this 
was  the  important  necessity.  It  was  this  necessity  that 
made  the  struggle  so  terrible. 

She  shook  like  an  aspen  in  the  wind.  Her  breast  heaved 
with  spasmodic  efforts  that  were  only  not  convulsions ;  her 
limbs  trembled  —  she  could  not  well  walk  —  yet  she  could 
not  remain  where  she  knelt.  To  kneel  without  submission, 
while  her  soul  still  struggled  with  divided  impulses,  was  to 
kneel  in  vain.  The  consolation  of  prayer  can  only  follow 
the  calmness  of  the  soul.  That  was  not  hers  —  could  not 
be.  Yet  it  wras  necessary  that  she  bhould  appear  calm. 
Terrible  trial !  She  tottered  across  the  room  to  the  mirror, 
and  gazed  upon  its  placid  surface.  It  was  no  longer  placid 
while  she  gazed.  What  a  convulsion  prompted  each  muscle 
of  her  face  !  The  dilation  of  those  orbs,  how  could  that  be 
subdued  ?  Yet  it  must  be  done. 

u  Thy  hand  is  upon  me  now !  —  God  be  merciful!"  she 
exclaimed,  once  more  sinking  to  her  knees. 

"  Bitterly  now  do  I  feel  how  much  I  have  offended.  Had 
these  five  years  been  passed  in  prayers  of  penitence  rather 
than  of  pride  —  in  prayers  for  grace  rather  than  of  ven 
geance —  it  had  not  been  hard  to  pray  now.  Thy  hand  had 
not  been  so  heavy  I  Spare  me,  Father.  Let  this  trial  be 
light.  Let  me  recover  strength  —  give  me  composure  for 
this  fearful  meeting !" 

She  started  to  her  feet.  3hc  heard  a  movement  in  her 
mother's  apartment  That  restless  old  lady,  apprized  of 


THE  SNAKE  ONCE  MORE  IN  THE  GARDEN.      235 

the  arrival  of  the  expected  visitors,  was  preparing  to  make 
her  appearance  below.  It  was  necessary  that  she  should 
be  forewarned,  else  she  might  endanger  everything.  With 
this  now  fear,  she  acquired  strength.  She  hurried  to  her 
mother's  apartment,  and  found  her  at  the  threshold.  The 
impatient  old  lady,  agog  with  all  the  curiosity  of  age,  was 
preparing  to  descend  the  stairs. 

"Come  back  with  me  an  instant,"  said  the  daughter,  as 
she  passed  into  the  chamber. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Margaret  ?  You  look  as 
if  your  old  fits  were  returning!" 

"  It  is  likely :  there  is  occasion  for  them.  Know  you 
who  is  below  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  Colonel  Sharpe  and  Mr.  Barnabas. 
Who  but  them?" 

"  Alfred  Stevens  is  below  !  Colonel  Sharpe  and  Alfred 
Stevens  are  the  same  person!" 

"You  don't  say  so!  Lord,  if  Beauchampe  only  knew!" 
exclaimed  the  old  lady,  in  accents  of  terror. 

"  And  if  you  rush  down  as  you  are,  he  will  know!"  said 
the  daughter  sternly.  "For  this  purpose  I  came  to  pre 
pare  you.  You  must  take  time  and  compose  yourself.  It 
is  no  easy  task  for  either  of  us,  mother,  but  it  must  be  done. 
You  do  not  know,  for  I  have  not  thought  it  worth  while  to 
tell  you,  that,  before  I  consented  to  marry  Beauchampe,  I 
told  him  all — 1  kept  no  secrets  from  him." 

"  You  didn't,  sure,  Margaret?" 

"As  Hive,  Tdid!" 

k'  But  that  was  very  foolish,  Margaret." 

"No!  —  it  was  right  —  it  was  necessary.  Nothing  less 
could  have  justified  me;  nothing  less  could  have  given  me 
safety." 

"  1  don't  see  —  I  think  'twas  very  foolish." 

"  Be  it  so,  mother  —  it  is  done  ;  and  I  must  tell  you  more, 
the  better  to  make  you  feel  the  necessity  of  keeping  your 
countenance.  Before  F  became  the  wife  of  Beauchampe,  he 


236  BEAUCHA'MPE. 

swore  to  revenge  my  wrong.  lie  pledged  himself  before 
Heaven  to  slay  my  betrayer  whenever  they  should  meet. 
They  have  met  —  they  arc  below  together!"  . 

"  Lord  have  mercy,  what  a  madness  was  this  !"  cried  the 
old  lady,  with  uplifted  hands,  and  sinking  into  a  chair.  HV 
anxiety  to  get  below  was  effectually  quieted. 

"  I;  was  no  madness  to  declare  the  truth,"  said  the  daugh 
tor  gloomily;  "perhaps  it  was  not  even  a  madness  to  dc 
maud  such  a  pledge." 

"  And  you're  going  to  tell  Beauchampc  that  his  intimate 
friend  and  Alfred  Stevens  are  the  same — you're  going  to 
have  blood  shed  in  the  house  ?" 

"No,  not  if  I  can  help  it!  When  I  swore  Beauchampe 
to  slay  tliis  villain,  I  was  not  the  woman  that  I  am  now.  I 
knew  not  then  my  husband's  worth.  I  did  not  then  do  jus 
tice  to  his  love,  which  was  honorable.  My  purpose  now  is 
to  keep  this  secret  from  him,  if  you  do  not  betray  it,  and  if 
the  criminal  himself  can  have  the  prudence  to  say  nothing. 
From  his  honor,  verc  that  my  only  security,  I  should  have 
no  hope.  I  feel  that  he  would  manifest  no  forbearance, 
were  he  not  restrained  by  the  wholesome  fear  of  vengeance. 
Even  in  this  respect  I  have  my  doubts.  There  is  sometimes 
such  a  recklessness  in  villany,  that  it  grows  rash  in  spite 
of  caution.  I  must  only  hope  and  pray  for  the  best.  All ! 
could  I  pray  !" 

Once  more  did  the  unhappy  woman  sink  upon  her  knees. 
She  was  now  more  composed.  Her  feelings  had  become 
fixed.  The  necessity  of  concentrating  her  strength,  and 
composing  her  countenance,  for  the  approaching  trial,  was 
sufficiently  strong  to  bring  about,  to  a  certain  extent,  the 
desired  results  ;  and  the  previous  necessity  of  restraining 
her  mother,  or  at  least  of  preparing  her  for  a  meeting,  which 
otherwise  might  have  provoked  a  very  suspicious  show  of 
feeling  or  excitement,  had  greatly  helped  to  increase  her 
own  fortitude  and  confirm  her  will.  But,  from  prayer,  she 
got  no  strength.  Still  she  could  not  pray.  The  emptj 


THE   SNAKE   ONCE    MURE    Ifl    THE   GARDEN.  23t 

words  came  from  the  lips  only.  The  soul  was  still  wander 
ing  elsewhere  —  still  striving,  struggling  in  a  moral  chaos, 
where,  if  all  was  neither  void  nor  formless,  all  was  dark, 
indistinct,  and  threatening. 

But  little  time  was  suffered  even  for  this  effort.  The 
voices  from  below  became  louder.  Laughter,  and  occasion 
ally  the  words  and  topics  of  conversation,  reached  their 
cars.  That  Alfred  Stevens  should  laugh  at  such  a  momen^ 
while  she  struggled  in  the  throes  of  mortal  apprehension  on 
account  of  him,  served  to  strengthen  her  pride,  and  renew 
and  warm  her  sense  of  hostility.  What  a  pang  it  was  to 
hear,  distinctly  uttered  by  his  lips,  an  inquiry,  addressed 
to  her  husband,  on  thg  subject  of  his  wife !  What  feelings 
of  pain  and  apprehension  were  awak3ned  in  her  bosom  by 
the  simple  sounds  — 

"  But  whcre's  your  wife,  Beauchampe  ?  we  must  see  her; 
you  know.  You  forget  the  commission  which  we  bear  — 
the  authority  conferred  by  the  club.  Unless  we  approve, 
you  kiio*" — " 

What  more  was  said  escaped  her,  but  a  few  moments 
more  elapsed  when  Beauchampe  was  heard  ascending  the 
stairs.  She  rose  from  where  she  knelt,  and,  bracing  her 
self  to  the  utmost,  she  advanced  and  met  him  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  and  show  yourself.  My  friends  won 
der  at  your  absence.  They  inquire  for  you.  Where's  your 
mother  ?" 

"  I  will  inform  her,  and  she  will  probably  follow  me 
down." 

"  Very  good  :  come  as  soon  as  possible,  for  we  must  get 
them  supper.  They  have  had  none." 

He  returned  to  his  guests,  and  she  to  her  chamber.  Her 
mother  was  weeping. 

"  If  you  do  not  feel  strong  enough,  mother,  to  face  these 
visitors  to-night,  do  not  conic  down.  I  will  sec  to  giving 
them  supper.  At  all  events,  remember  how  much  depends 


238  BEIUCTIAMPE. 

on  your  firmness.  I  feel  new  that  1  shall  be  strong 
enough ;  but  I  tremble  when  I  think  of  you.  Perhaps  you 
had  better  not  be  seen  at  all.  I  can  plead  indisposition 
for  you  while  they  remain,  which  I  suppose  will  only  be 
to-night." 

The  mother  was  undecided  what  to  do.  She  could  only 
articulate  the  usual  lamentation  of  imbecility,  that  things 
were  as  they  were. 

"It  was  eo  foolish  to  tell  l.im  anything!" 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  in  silence  and  sorrow.  But 
the  remark  rather  lifted  her  forehead.  It  was,  indeed,  with 
the  pride  of  a  high  and  honorable  soul  that  she  exulted  in 
the  consciousness  that  she  had  revealed  the  truth  —  that  she 
had  concealed  nothing  of  her  cruel  secret  from  the  husband 
who  had  the  right  to  know.  With  this  strengthening  con- 
victior  that,  if  the  worst  came,  she  at  least  had  no  conceal 
ments  which  could  do  her  harm,  she  descended  to  the  fear 
ful  encounter. 

Never  was  the  rigid  purpose  of  a  severe  will,  in  circum 
stances  most  trying,  impressed  upon  any  nature  with  more 
inflexibility  than  upon  hers.  Every  nerve  and  sensibility 
was  corded  up  to  the  fullest  tension.  She  f-'lt  that  she 
might  fall  in  sudden  convulsion  —  that  the  ligatures  which 
her  will  had  put  upon  brain  and  impulse  might  occasion 
apoplexy  ;  but  she  felt,  at  the  same  time,  that  every  muscle 
would  do  its  duty — that  her  step  should  not  falter — that 
her  eye  should  not  shrink  —  that  no  emotion  of  face,  no 
agitation  of  frame,  should  effect  the  development  of  her  fear 
ful  secret,  or  rouse  the  suspicions  of  her  husband  that  there 
was  a  secret. 

She  achieved  her  purpose  !  She  entered  the  apartment 
with  the  easy  dignity  of  one  wholly  unconscious  of  wrong, 
or  of  any  of  those  feelings  which  denote  the  memory  of 
wrong.  But  she  did  not  succeed,  nor  did  she  try,  to  impart 
to  her  countenance  and  manner  the  appearance  of  indiffer 
ence.  On  the  contrary,  the  solemnity  of  her  looks  amount 


THE   SNAKE   ONOtf.    MOUK    117    THE   GARDEN.  '^ 

3d  to  intensity.  She  could  not  divest  her  face  of  the  ten 
sion  which  she  felt.  The  tremendous  earnestness  of  the 
encounter  —  the  awful  seriousness  of  that  meeting  on  which 
so  much  depended  —  if  not  clearly  expressed  on  her  coun 
tenance,  left  there  at  least  the  language  of  an  impressive- 
ness  which  had  its  effect  upon  the  company. 

Beauchampe  was  aware  of  enough  cc  be  at  no  loss  to 
account  for  the  grave  severity  of  her  aspect.  Mr.  Barna 
bas,  without  knowing  anything,  at  least  felt  the  presence 
of  much  and  solemn  character  in  the  eyes  that  met  his  own. 
As  for  Colonel  Sharps,  he  was  too  much  surprised  at  meet 
ing  so  unexpectedly  with  the  woman  he  had  wronged,  to 
be  at  all  observant  of  the  particular  feelings  which  her  fea 
ture.,  seemed  to  express. 

He  started  at  her  entrance.  Looking,  just  then,  at  his 
wife,  Beauchampe  failed  to  note  the  movement  of  his  guest. 
Sharpc  started,  his  face  became  suddenly  pale,  then  red ; 
and  his  eyes  involuntarily  turned  to  Beauchampe,  as  if  in 
doubt  and  inquiry.  His  conge,  if  he  made  any,  was  the 
result  of  habit  only.  Never  was  guilty  spirit  more  suddenly 
confounded,  though  perhaps  never  could  guilty  spirit  more 
rapidly  recover  from  his  consternation.  In  ten  minutes 
after,  Colonel  Sharpe,  alias  Alfred  Stevens,  was  as  talkative 
as  ever  —  as  if  he  had  no  mortifications  to  apprehend,  no 
.conscience  to  quiet :  but,  when  the  eyes  of  Beauchampe  and 
Barnabas  were  averted,  his  might  be  seen  to  wander  to  the 
spot  where  sat  the  woman  he  had  wronged ! 

What  was  the  expression  in  that  glance  ?  What  was  the 
secret  thought  in  the  dishonorable  mind  of  the  criminal  ? 
Though  momentary  only,  that  glance  was  full  of  intelli 
gence  :  but  the  recognition  which  it  conveyed  found  no 
response  from  hers;  though  —  not  unfrequently,  at  such 
moments  —  as  if  there  were  some  fascination  in  his  eyes, 
they  encountered  those  of  the  person  whom  they  sought, 
keenly  fixed  upon  them  ! 


24C 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE   BITTER   PARLE. 

AND  thus,  after  five  long  years  of  separation — yearc  of 
triumph  on  the  one  hand,  years  of  degradation  and  despera 
tion  on  the  other  —  the}7  met.  the  destroyer  and  his  victim. 
The  serpent  had  once  more  penetrated  into  the  garden.  Its 
flowers  had  been  renewed.  Its  Eden,  for  a  brief  moment, 
appeared  to  be  restored.  If  the  sunshine  was  of  a  subdued 
and  mellowed  character,  it  was  still  sunshine !  Alas  for 
the  woman !  she  gazed  upon  her  destroyer,  and  felt  that 
the  whole  fabric  of  her  peace  was  once  more  in  peril.  She 
saw  before  her  the  same  base  spirit  which  had  so  profli 
gately  triumphed  in  her  overthrow.  She  felt,  from  a  single 
glance,  that  he  had  undergone  no  change.  There  was  an 
expression  in  his  look,  when  their  eyes  encountered,  which 
annoyed  her  with  the  familiarity  of  its  recognition.  She 
turned  from  it  with  disgust. 

"  At  all  events,"  she  thought,  "  he  will  keep  his  secret ; 
he  will  not  willingly  incur  the  anger  of  a  husband.  A  day 
will  free  us  from  his  presence,  and  the  danger  will  then 
pass  for  ever!" 

Filled  with  doubts,  racked  with  apprehension,  but  still 
succored  by  this  hope,  the  woman  yet  performed  the  duties 
of  the  household  with  a  stern  resoluteness  that  was  ad  mi 
rable.  No  external  tokens  of  her  agitation  were  to  be 
seen.  Her  movements  were  methodical,  and  free  from  all 
precipitation.  Her  voice,  though  the  tones  were  low,  was 


THE    BITTER    PAIILE.  241 

clear,  distinct,  and  she  spoke  simply  to  the  purpose.  Even 
her  enemy  felt,  or  rather  exercised,  a  far  less  degree  of 
coolness  and  composure.  His  voice  sometimes  faltered  as 
he  gazed  upon,  and  addressed  her;  and  there  was,  at  mo 
ments,  a  manifest  effort  at  ease  and  playfulness,  which  the 
ready  sense  of  Beauchampe  himself  did  not  fail  to  discrimi 
nate.  It  was  something  of  a  startling  coincidence  that,  after 
fighting  with  William  Calvert  about  Margaret  Cooper,  lie 
should,  the  very  next  night,  be  the  favored  guest  of  her 
husband  !  Colonel  Sharpe  brooded  over  the  fact  with  some 
superstitious  misgivings  ;  but  the  progress  of  supper  soon 
made  him  forgetful  of  his  fears,  if  he  had  any ;  and,  before 
the  evening  was  far  advanced,  he  had  recovered  very  much 
of  his  old  composure. 

When  the  supper-things  were  removed,  Mr.  Barnabas 
brought  up  the  subject  of  horses,  in  order,  as  it  would  seem, 
to  advert  to  the  condition  of  his  favorite  roan,  which  had 
struck  lame  that  evening  on  their  way  from  Bowling-Green. 
The  question  was  a  serious  one  whether  he  suffered  from 
snag,  or  nail,  or  pebble;  and  the  worthy  owner  concluded 
his  speculations  by  declaring  his  wish,  at  an  early  moment, 
to  subject  the  animal  to  fitting  inspection.  Beauchampe 
rose  to  attend  him  to  the  stables. 

"  Will  you  go,  colonel  ?"  asked  Mr.  Barnabas. 

"  Surely  not,"  was  the  reply.  "  My  taste  does  not  lie 
that  way.  I  will  remain  with  Mrs.  Beauchampe,  in  the 
hope  to  perfect  our  acquaintance." 

The  blood  rose  in  the  brain  of  the  person  spoken  of;  her 
heart  strove  to  suppress  the  rising  feeling  of  indignation. 
At  first,  her  impulse  was  to  rise  and  leave  the  room.  But 
tne  next  moment  determined  her  otherwise.  A  single  re 
flection  convinced  her  that  there  would  be  no  good  policy 
m  such  a  movement  —  that  it  would  be  equivalent  to  a  con 
fession  of  weakness,  which  she  did  not  feel ;  and  she  was 
resolved  that  her  feelings  of  aversion  should  not  give  her 
er.emy  such  an  advantage  over  her. 

11 


242  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  He  must  be  met,  at  one  time  or  other  ;  and  perhaps  the 
sooner  the  issue  is  over,  the  better." 

This  reflection  passed  through  her  mind  in  very  few  sec 
ouds.  They  were  now  alone  together.  The  lantern,  which 
the  servant  carried  before  Beauchampe  and  Mr.  Barnabas, 
was  already  flickering  faintly  at  a  distance  as  seen  through 
the  window-pane  beside  her,  when  Colonel  Sharpe  started 
from  his  seat  and  approached  her. 

"  Can  it  be  that  I  again  see  you,  Margaret?"  he  ex 
claimed;  "have  rny  prayers  been  granted  —  am  I  again 
blessed  with  a  meeting  with  one  so  dearly  loved,  so  long 
and  bitterly  lamented  ?" 

"  You  see  the  wife  of  Orville  Beauchampe,  Colonel 
Sharpe !"  was  ihe  expressive  reply. 

"Nay,  Margaret,  it  is  my  misfortune  that  you  arc  his 
wife,  or  the  wife  of  any  man  but  one.  Hear  me  —  for  I 
perceive  that  you  think  that  I  have  wronged  you — ' 

"  Think,  sir,  think  !  —  but  no  more  of  this  !"  was  her  in 
dignant  answer,  as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  prepared  to 
leave  the  room  ;  "  it  can  matter  little  to  you,  sir,  what  my 
thoughts  of  your  conduct  and  character  may  be,  as  it  is 
now  small  matter  to  me  what  they  ever  have  been.  It  is 
enough  for  you  to  know  that  you  are  the  guest  of  my  hus 
band  ;  and  that,  in  his  ignorance  of  your  crime,  lies  your 
only  safety.  A  word  from  me,  sir,  brings  down  his  yen- 
geance  upon  your  head !  You  yourself  best  know  whether 
that  is  to  be  feared  or  not." 

"  But  you  will  not  speak  that  word,  Margaret !" 

"  Will  I  not  ?"  she  exclaimed,  while  a  fiery  scorn  seemed 
to  gather  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  Margaret,  no !  I  am  sure  you  can  not.  Ecr  the 
sake  of  the  past,  you  will  not." 

"  Be  not  so  sure  of  that !  It  is  for  the  sake  of  the  future 
that  I  am  silent.  Were  it  for  the  past  only,  Alfred  Stevens, 
not  only  should  my  lips  speak,  but  my  hands  act.  I  should 
not  ask  of  him  to  avcntro  me :  my  own  arm  should  right  my 


THE   BITTER   PARLE.  243 

wrong ;  my  own  arm  should,  even  now,  be  uplifted  in  the 
work  of  vengeance,  and  you  should  never  leave  this  house 
alive !" 

He  smiled  as  he  replied  : — 

"  I  know  you  better,  Margaret.     If  you  ever  loved — " 

'•'Stay,  sir — stay,  Alfred  Stevens  —  if  you  would  not 
have  me  so  madden  as  to  prove  to  you  how  little  you  have 
known  or  can  know  of  me!  Do  not  speak  to  me  in  such 
language.  Beware  —  for  your  own  sake,  for  my  sake,  I 
implore  you  to  forbear !" 

"For  your  sake,  Margaret  —  anything  for  your  sake. 
But  be  not  hasty  in  your  judgment.  You  wrong  me  —  on 
my  soul  you  do  !  If  you  knew  the  cruel  necessity  that  kept 
me  from  you — " 

"0  false!"  she  exclaimed  — "  false,  and  no  less  foolish 
than  false !  Do  not  hope  to  deceive  me  by  your  base  in 
ventions.  I  heard  all  —  know  all !  I  know  that  I  was  the 
credulous  victim  of  your  subtle  arts  —  that  my  conquest  and 
overthrow  was  the  subject  of  your  dishonest  boast." 

"  It  is  false,  Margaret !  The  villain  lied  who  told  you 
this." 

"No,  Alfred  Stevens,  no!  — he  spoke  the  truth.  The 
veracity  of  the  two  Ilinkleys  was  never  questioned.  But 
your  own  acts  confirmed  the  story.  Why  did  you  not  keep 
your  promise  ?  why  did  you  fly  ?  Where  have  you  been  for 
live  bitter  years,  in  which  I  was  the  miserable  mock  of  those 
whom  I  once  looked  on  with  contempt — the  desperate,  the 
fearful  wretch  —  on  the  verge  of  a  madness  which,  half  the 
time,  kept  the  weapons  of  death  within  my  grasp  —  which 
I  only  did  not  use  upon  myself,  because  there  was  still  a 
hope  that  I  should  meet  with  you  I'1 

"  I  am  here  now,  Margaret.  If  my  death  be  necessary 
to  your  peace,  command  it.  I  confess  that  I  owe  you 
atonement,  though  I  am  less  guilty  than  you  think.  Take 
my  life,  if  that  will  suffice  :  I  offer  no  entreaty ;  I  utter  no 
complaint." 


244  BEAUCHAMPE. 

4  One  little  month  go,  Alfred  Stevens,  and  you  had  not 
needed  to  make  this  offer — you  had  not  made  it  a  second 
time  in  vain.  But  that  time  has  changed  me.  Go — live  ! 
Leave  this  house  with  the  morning's  sun,  and  forget  that 
you  have  ever  known  me !  Forget,  if  possible,  that  you 
icuow  my  husband  1  It  is  for  his  sake  that  I  spare  you  — 
for  his  sake  I  entreat  your  silence  of  the  past — your  utter 
forgctfulness  of  him  and  me." 

<•  For  his  sake,  Margaret !"  he  answered  with  an  incred 
ulous  smile  while  offering  to  take  her  hand.  She  repulsed 
him. 

"  No,  no,  Margaret !  it  is  impossible  that  this  young  man 
can  be  anything  to  you.  You  can  not  be  so  forgetful  of 
those  dear  moments,  of  that  first  passion,  consecrated  as  it 
was  by  those  stolen  joys— " 

"Remind  me  not  —  man  or  devil!  —  remind  me  not. 
Remind  me  not  of  your  crime  —  remind  me  not  of  my  sworn 
vengeance — sworn,  day  by  day,  every  day  of  bitterness  and 
death  which  I  have  endured  since  those  dark  and  damning 
hours.  Hark  ye,  Alfred  Stevens!" — her  voice  here  sud 
denly  lowered  almost  to  a  whisper — "  hark  ye,  you  are  not 
a  wise  man !  You  are  tempting  your  fate.  You  are  in  the 
very  den  of  danger.  I  tell  you  that  I  spare  your  life,  though 
the  weapon  is  shotted  —  though  the  knife  is  whetted.  I 
spare  your  life,  simply,  on  condition  that  you  depart.  Lin 
ger  longer  than  is  absolutely  needful  —  vex  me  longer  with 
*hese  insolent  suggestions  —  and  you  wake  into  fury  the 
-lumbering  hatred  of  my  soul,  which,  for  five  years,  has 
known  no  moment's  sleep  till  now.  See!  —  the  light  re 
turns —  a  word  —  a  single  word  more  by  way  of  warning — 
depart  by  the  dawn  to-morrow.  Linger  longer,  arid  you 
may  never  depart  again  !" 

"  Why,  Margaret,  this  is  downright  madness  !" 

"  So  it  is ;  and  I  am  mad,  and  can  not  be  otherwise  than 
mad,  while  you  remain  here.  Do  you  not  fear  that  my 
madness  will  turn  upon  «n<]  rend  you." 


THE    UlTTEU    I'AKLE.  246 

"  No !"  he  said  quietly,  but  earnestly  and  ia  subdued 
tones,  for  the  light  was  now  rapidly  approaching.  "  No, 
Margaret,  for  I  can  not  believe  in  such  sudden  changes  from 
love  to  hate.  Besides,  if  it  were  true,  of  what  profit  would 
it  be  to  take  this  vengeance  ?  It  would  forfeit  all  the  peace 
and  happiness  which  you  now  enjoy !" 

"  Do  I  not  know  it  ?  Is  not  this  what  I  would  tell  you  ? 
Do  I  not  entreat  you  to  spare  me,  for  this  very  reason  ? 
To  rend  and  destroy  you  might  gratify  my  vengeance,  but 
it  would  overthrow  the  peace  of  others  who  have  become 
dear  to  me.  I  ask  you  to  spare  them  —  to  spare  me — not 
to  provoke  me  to  that  desperation  which  will  make  me  for 
getful  of  everything  except  the  wrong  I  have  suffered  at 
your  hand  and  the  hate  I  bear  you." 

u  But  how  do  I  this,  Margaret  ?" 

"  Your  presence  does  it." 

u  I  can  not  think  you  hate  me." 

"  Ha  !  indeed  !  you  can  not  ?  Do  not,  I  pray  you,  trust 
to  that.  You  deceive  yourself.  You  do !  Leave  this 
house  with  the  morrow.  Break  off  your  intimacy  with 
Hcauchampc.  Forget  me  !  Look  not  at  me !  Provoke 
me  not  with  your  glance  —  still  less  with  your  accents  ;  for, 
believe  me,  Alfred  Stevens,  I  have  had  but  a  single  thought 
cilice  the  day  of  my  dishonor — but  a  single  prayer — and 
that- was  for  the  moment  and  the  opportunity  when  I  might 
wash  my  hands  in  your  blood.  Your  looks,  your  words, 
revive  the  feeling  within  me.  Even  now  I  feel  the  thirst  to 
slay  you  arising  in  my  soul.  I  do  not  speak  to  threaten. 
To  speak,  at  all,  I  must  speak  this  language.  I  obey  the 
feeling  whatever  it  may  be.  Let  me  then  implore  you,  be 
warned  while  there  is  time.  Another  day,  and  I  may  not 
be  able  to  command  myself — I  can  scarcely  do  so  now  ;  and 
in  doing  so,  the  effort  is  not  made  in  your  behalf — not  even 
in  my  own.  It  is  for  him  —  for  Beauchampe  only.  He 
comes  —  be  warned  —  beware -i" 

The  approach  of  the  light  and  the  sounds  of  voices  from 


246  HKAUCHAMPE. 

without,  produced  tlicir  natural  effect.  They  warned  the 
offender  much  more  effectually  than  even  the  exhortation 
of  the  woman,  stern,  vehement,  as  it  was.  Nay,  he  did  not 
believe  in  the  sincerity  of  her  speech.  His  vanity  forbade 
that,  lie  could  not  easily  persuade  himself  of  the  revolu 
tion  which  she  alleged  her  mind  to  have  undergone,  in  his 
case,  from  love  to  hate ;  and  was  not  the  man  to  attach  any 
very  great  degree  of  faith  to  asseverations  of  such  hostility 
at  any  time  on  the  part  of  a  creature  usually  so  unstable 
and  capricious  as  he  deemed  woman  to  be.  It  is  certain 
that  what  she  said  had  failed  to  affect  him  as  it  was  meant 
to  have  done.  The  unhappy  woman  saw  that  with  an  in 
creased  feeling  of  care  and  apprehension.  She  beheld  it 
in  the  leer  of  confident  assurance  which  he  still  continued 
to  bestow  upon  her  even  when  the  feet  of  Beauchanipe  were 
upon  the  threshold  ;  and  felt  it  in  the  half-whispered  words 
of  hope  and  entreaty  with  which  the  criminal  closed  the 
conference  between  them  at  the  same  moment. 

Truly  bitter  was  that  cup  to  her  at  this  moment — fear 
ful  and  bitter  !  Involuntarily  she  clasped  her  hands,  with 
the  action  of  entreaty,  while  her  eyes  once  more  riveted 
themselves  upon  him.  A  meaning  smile,  which  reawakened 
all  her  indignation,  answered  her,  and  then  the  muscles  of 
both  were  required  to  be  composed  and  inexpressive,  as  the 
husband  once  mere  stood  between  them. 


THE    CL1ND   iiEEKEU    AFTElt    FATE.  247 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE    BLIND    SEEKER    AFTER    FATE. 

THE  necessity  of  the  case  brought  a  tolerable  composure 
to  the  countenances  of  both  the  parties  as  Beauchampe  and 
his  companion  re-entered  the  room.  An  instant  after,  the 
wife  left  it  and  hurried  up  to  her  chamber.  Beauchampe's 
eye  followed  her  movements  curiously.  In  truth,  knowing 
the  dread  and  aversion  which  she  had  avowed,  at  mingling 
again  in  society,  he  was  anxious  to  ascertain  how  she  had 
borne  herself  in  the  interview  with  his  friend. 

"  Truly,  Beauchampe,"  said  the  latter,  as  if  in  answer  to 
his  thoughts,  "  your  wife  is  a  very  splendid  woman." 

"  Ah !  do  you  like  her  ?  Did  she  converse  freely  with 
you  ?  She  speaks  well,  but  does  not  like  society  much." 

"  Very  —  she  has  a  fine  majestic  mind.  Talks  admirably 
well.  Did  you  meet  with  her  here?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  though  with  some  hesitation. 
"  This  farm  upon  which  we  live  is  her  mother's." 

"  Her  mother  !  ah  !  what  was  her  maiden-name,  Beau 
champe  ?  I  think  you  mentioned  it  in  your  letter,  but  it  es 
capes  me  now  ?" 

"  Cookc  :  Miss  Anna  Cooke." 

"  Cooke,  Cooke — I  wonder  if  she  is  of  the  Cookes  of 
Sunbury  ?  I  used  to  know  that  family." 

"I  think  —  I  believe  not — lam  not  sure,  however.  I 
really  can  not  say." 

The  reply  of  Bcjiuchampc  \vas  made  with  some  trcpida 


248  BEAUCIIAMPE. 

tion.  The  inquiry  of  Sharpc,  which  had  been  urged  very 
gravely,  aroused  the  only  half-latent  consciousness  of  the 
husband,  who  began  to  feel  the  awkwardness  of  answering 
any  more  particular  questions.  Sharpe  did  not  perceive 
the  anxiety  of  Beaucharupe  —  he  was  himself  too  much  ab 
sorbed  in  the  subject  of  which  he  spoke. 

"  Your  wife  is  certainly  a  very  splendid  woman  in  per 
son,  Beauchampe  ;  and  her  mind  appears  to  be  original  and 
well  informed.  But  she  seems  melancholy,  Beauchampe  ; 
quite  too  much  so,  for  a  newly-made  bride.  Eh  !  what  can 
be  the  matter  ?" 

"  She  has  had  losses  —  misfortunes  —  her  mother,  too,  is 
an  invalid,  and  she  has  been  compelled  to  be  a  watcher  for 
some  time  past." 

"  And  how  long  have  they  been  neighbors  to  your  mother  ? 
If  I  recollect,  you  never  spoke  of  them  before  ?" 

"  You  forget,  I  have  been  absent  from  home  some  years," 
replied  Beauchampe  evasively. 

"  True  ;  I  suppose  they  have  come  into  the  neighborhood 
within  that  time  ?  You  did  not  know  your  wife  in  boyhood, 
did  you  ?" 

"  No — I  did  not.    I  never  saw  her  till  my  present  visit.'' 

"  I  thought  not !  Such  a  woman  is  not  to  be  passed  over 
with  indifference.  Her  person  must  attract — and  her  in 
tellect  must  secure  and  fascinate.  I  should  say  no  man 
was  ever  more  fortunate  in  his  choice.  What  say  you,  Bar 
nabas  ?  We  must  give  Beauchampe  a  certificate  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  if  you  say  so ;  but  I  can  only  judge  of 
Mrs.  Beauchampe  by  appearances.  I  have  had  none  of  the 
chat.  I  agree  with  you  that  she  is  a  splendid  woman  to 
the  eye,  and  will  take  your  judgment  for  the  rest.*' 

u  You  will  be  safe  in  doing  so.  But  how  do  you  find 
your  horse  ?" 

"  Regularly  lame.  I'm  afraid  the  cursed  brute's  snagged 
or  has  a  nail  in  his  foot.  The  quick's  touched  somehow,  for 
be  won't  lay  the  foot  to  the  ground." 


THE   BLIND   SEEKER    AFTER   PATE.  249 

"  That's  bad  !     What  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Nothing !  We  can  see  to  do  nothing  to-night ;  but  by 
the  peep  of  day  I  must  be  at  him.  I  must  have  your  help, 
Beauchampe  —  with  your  soap  and  turpentine,  and  what 
ever  else  may  be  good  for  such  a  case  ?" 

Beaachampe  answered  with  readiness,  perhaps  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  that  the  subject  should  be  changed. 

"  With  your  permission,  then,  I  will  leave  you,"  said 
Barnabas,  "  and  get  my  sleep  while  I  may.  Let  your  boy 
waken  me  at  dawn,  if  you  please,  for  I  am  really  anxious 
about  the  animal.  He  is  a  favorite  —  a  nag  among  a  thou 
sand." 

"  An  every  man's  nag  is,"  said  Sharpe.  "  You  can  al 
ways  tell  a  born  egotist.  lie  has  always  the  best  horse 
and  the  best  gun,  the  best  ox  and  the  best  ass,  of  any  man 
in  the  country.  He  really  believes  it.  But  ask  Barnabas 
aboul  the  best  wife,  and  ten  to  one  he  says  nothing  of  his 
own.  He  has  no  boasts,  strange  to  say,  about  his  own  rib 
—  bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his  flesh." 

"  You  arc  cutting  quite  too  close,"  said  Barnabas. 

"  As  near  to  the  quick,  in  your  case,  as  in  that  of  your 
nag." 

"  Almost !  but  the  quick  in  that  region  is  getting  callous." 

"  High  time,  Barnabas;  it  has  been  subject  to  sufficient 
Induration." 

"  At  all  events,  I  have  no  dread  of  your  knife  ;  its  edge 
is  quite  too  blunt  to  do  much  hurt.  Good-night :  try  it  on 
Beauchampe.  A  young  man  and  a  young  wife  —  I  have 
very  little  doubt  you  can  find  the  quick  in  him  with  a  little 
probing." 

The  quick  in  Beauchampe's  case  had  already  been  found. 
Good  Mr.  Barnabas  little  knew  on  what  delicate  ground  he 
was  trespassing. 

"  A  good  fellow,  that  Barnabas,"  said  Sharpe,  "  but  a 
dull  one.  He  really  fancies,  now,  that  his  nag  is  a  crea 
ture  of  great  blood  and  bottom;  and  a  more  sorry  jade 

11* 


250  BEAUCHAMI'E. 

never  paddled  to  a  country  muster-ground.  He  will  scarcely 
sleep  to-night,  with  meditating  upon  the  embrocations,  the 
fomentations,  the  fumigations,  and  whatever  else  may  be 
accessary.  But  a  truce  to  this,  Beauchampe.  I  have  a 
better  subject.  Seriously,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  never  been 
more  pleasantly  surprised  than  in  meeting  with  your  wrife. 
Really,  she  is  remarkably  beautiful ;  and,  though  she  is 
evidently  shy  of  strangers,  yet,  as  you  know  I  have  the  art 
of  bringing  women  out,  I  may  boast  of  my  ability  to  say 
what  stuff  she  is  made  of.  She  speaks  with  singular  force 
and  elegance.  I  have  never  met  with  equal  eloquence  in 
any  woman  but  one." 

"  And  who  is  she  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  can  not  tell  you  thai.  It  is  years  since  I  knew 
her,  and  she  is  no  longer  the  same  being :  but  your  wife 
very  much  reminds  me  of  her." 

"  Was  she  as  beautiful  as  Anna  ?" 

"  Very  near.  She  was  something  younger  than  your 
wife  —  a  slight  difference  —  a  few  years  only;  but  the  ad- 
rantage,  if  this  were  any,  is  compensated  by  the  superior 
dignity  and  the  lofty  character  of  yours.  She  I  allude  to 
—  but  it  matters-not  now.  Enough  that  your  wife  brings 
her  to  my  mind  as  vividly  as  if  the  real,  living  presence 
were  before  me,  whom  I  once  knew  and  admired,  years 
ago." 

Thus,  with  a  singular  audacity,  did  Colonel  Sharpc  dally 
with  this  dangerous  subject.  He  did  not  this  perversely  — 
with  wilful  premeditation.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not 
well  avoid  it.  Evil  thoughts  have  in  them  that  faculty  of 
perversely  impelling  the  mind  and  tongue  which  is  pos 
sessed  by  intoxicating  liquors.  At  moments,  the  wily  as 
sassin  strove  to  avoid  the  subject,  but  he  returned  to  it 
again  almost  the  instant  nfter,  even  us  one  who  recoils  sud 
denly  from  the  edge  of  some  unexpected  precipice,  again 
and  sixain  advances  once  more  to  iraze,  with  fascinated 
vision,  down  into  its  dim  and  -perilous  depths. 


THE    BLIND    SEEKKR    AFTER   FATE.  251 

A  like  fascination  did  this  subject  possess  over  the  mind 
of  Beauchampe.  The  feeling  of  confidence,  amounting  to 
defiance,  which  he  expressed  to  his  wife,  before  their  guesta 
had  arrived,  and  whenever  the  two  had  spoken  of  going 
into  the  world,  no  longer  seemed  to  sustain  him.  The  mo 
ment  that  a  stranger's  lip  spoke  her  name,  and  those  inqui 
ries  were  made,  which-  are  natural  enough  in  such  cases 
from  the  lips  of  friends,  about  the  connections  and  history 
of  the  woman  he  had  married,  then  did  Beauchampe,  for 
the  first  time,  perceive  the  painful  meshes  of  deception  into 
which  the  unfortunate  events  in  his  wife's  life  would  neces 
sarily  involve  his  utterance.  Yet  still,  with  the  restlessness 
of  discontent,  did  he  himself  incline  his  ear  to  the  smallest 
reference  which  his  companion  made  to  this  subject.  His 
pride  was  excited  to  hear  her  praises,  and  the  ra*fner  bare 
faced  and  bald  compliments  which  had  been  paid  to  her 
intellect  and  beauty  were  dear  to  him  as  the  lover  ar.d  the 
worshipper  of  both.  If  love  be  timid,  of  itself,  in  the  ut 
terance  of  culogiurn  upon  the  beauties  which  it  admires,  it 
is  equally  certain  that  no  subject,  from  the  lips  of  another, 
can  be  more  really  grateful  to  its  ear.  It  was  perhaps  this 
sort  of  pleasure  which  Beauchampe  derived  from  the  sub 
ject,  and  which  made  him  incline  to  it  whenever  his  com 
panion  employed  it. 

Still,  in  the  language  of  Mr.  Barnabas,  there  was  an  oc 
casional  touching  of  the  quick  in  what  Sharpe  said,  at  mo 
ments,  under  which  his  sensibilities  winced.  It  was,  there-, 
fore,  with  a  mixed  or  rather  divided  feeling,  neither  of  pain 
nor  pleasure,  or  a  compounded  one  of  both,  that  Beauchampe 
conducted  his  friend  to  the  chamber  which  was  assigned 
him  —  returning  afterward  to  his  own,  in  a  state  of  mind 
highly  excited,  almost  feverish  —  dissatisfied  with  himself, 
his  friend  —  with  every  person  bttt  his  wife.  With  her  he 
had  no  cause  of  quarrel.  No  doubt  of  her,  no  sense  of 
jealousy,  no  regret,  no  apprehension,  disturbed  that  devoted 
passion  which  made  him  resolve,  under  all  circumstances. 


2^1  r.KAUrilAMPK. 

to  link  her  with  his  life.  If  anything,  the  effect  of  the 
evening's  interview  was  to  make  him  look  with  e}Tes  of 
greater  favor  upon  her  taste  for  privacy,  and  the  life  of 
seclusion  in  which,  up  to  this  period,  his  moments  of  supe 
rior  happiness  had  been  known.  But  this  subject  docs  not 
concern  us  now. 

Colonel  Sharpe  was  shown  into  the  same  chamber  which 
had  been  allotted  to  Mr.  Barnabas.  In  our  frontier  country, 
it  need  scarcely  be  stated,  that  the  selfishness  which  insists 
upon  chamber  and  bed  to  itself  is  apt  to  be  practically  re 
buked  in  a  manner  the  most  decided.  In  some  parts,  two 
in  a  bed  would  be  thought  quite  a  liberal  arrangement ;  and 
may  well  be  thought  so,  when  it  is  known  that  four  or  five 
is  not  an  uncommon  number — the  fifth  man  being  occasion 
ally  placed  crosswise,  in  the  manner  of  a  raft-tie,  rather,  it 
would  seem,  to  keep  the  rest  from  falling  out,  than  with  the 
view  to  making  him  unnecessarily  comfortable. 

Messrs.  Sharpe  and  Barnabas  were  too  well  accustomed 
to  the  condition  of  country -life  to  make  any  scruple  about 
that  arrangement  which  placed  them  in  the  same  apartment 
and  couch  ;  and,  under  existing  circumstances,  the  former 
was  rather  pleased  with  it  than  otherwise.  He  had  scarce 
ly  entered  the  room  before  he  carefully  fastened  the  door ; 
listened  for  the  retreating  steps  of  Beauchampe,  till  they 
were  finally  lost ;  and,  while  Barnabas  was  wondering  at, 
and  vainly  endeavoring  to  divine  the  reason  of  this  mystery, 
he  approached  the  bed  where  the  other  lay,  and  seated 
himself  upon  it. 

"  You  are  not  asleep,  Barnabas  ?"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  with  tones  made  rather  husky 
by  a  sudden  tremulousness  of  the  nerves.  "  No !  what's 
the  matter  ?" 

"Matter  enough  —  the -Strangest  matter  in  the  world! 
Would  you  believe  it,  that  Margaret  Cooper  —  the  girl 
whose  seduction  was  charged  upon  me  by  Calvert  —  and 
Beauehampe's  wife  are  one  and  the  same  person !" 


THE    BLIND   SEEKER    AFTER   FATE.  2f>3 

"  The  devil  they  are !"  exclaimed  the  other,  in  his  sur 
prise  rising  to  a  sitting  posture  in  the  bed. 

"  True  as  gospel  P 

"  Can't  be  possible,  Sharpe  !" 

"  Possible,  and  true.  They  are  the  same.  I  have  spoken 
with  her  as  Margaret  Cooper ;  the  recognition  is  complete 
on  both  sides.  We  talked  of  nothing  else  while  you  and 
Beauchampe  were  at  the  stables." 

"  Great  God  !  how  awkward  !     What's  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Awkward  ?  whore's  the  awkwardness  ?  I  see  nothing 
awkward  about  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  regard  this  meeting 
as  devilish  fortunate.  I  was  never  half  satisfied  to  lose  her 
as  I  did,  and  to  find  her  again  is  like  finding  one's  treasure 
when  he  had  given  up  the  hope  of  it  for  ever." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean,  Sharpe  ?  Are  you  really  in 
sensible  to  the  danger  ?" 

"  What  danger  ?" 

"  Why,  that  she'll  blow  you  to  her  husband !" 

"  What  wife  would  do  that,  d'ye  think  ?  No,  no,  Bar 
nabas  ;  she's  no  such  fool !  Of  course,  she  kept  her  secret 
when  she  married  him.  She'll  scarcely  blab  it  now." 

"  But  won't  this  affair  of  Calvert  get  to  his  ears  ?" 

"What  if  it  does?  It  can  do  no  mischief.  Had  you 
listened  to  my  examination  of  Beauchampe — but  you're  a 
dull  fellow,  Barnabas  !  Didn't  you  hear  me  ask  what  his 
wife's  maiden  name  was? — maiden  name,  indeed!  —  Did 
you  hear  the  answer  ?" 

"Yes  —  he  said  the  name  was  Cooke." 

"To  be  sure  he  did  —  Ann,  or  Anna  Cooke — his  Anna! 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  His  Anna'" 

"  But  don't  laugh  so  loud,  Sharpe  ;  they'll  hear  you  and 
suspect." 

"  Pshaw,  you're  timid  as  a  hare  in  December.  Don't  yo^ 
see  that  she  has  imposed  upon  him  a  false  name.  Let  him 
hear  till  doomsday  of  Margaret  Cooper  and  myself,  and  it 
brings  him  not  a  jol  nighcr  to  the  truth.  But,  of  course; 


254  BEAUCHAMPE. 

you  must  tell  him  of  my  affair  with  Calvcrt,  and  give  the 
political  version.  He  can  scarce  hear  any  other  version 
from  any  other  source :  political  hacks  will  scarcely  ever 
deal  in  truth  when  a  lie  may  be  had  as  easily,  and  can  serve 
their  turn  as  well.  We  are  representatives  of  our  several 
parties  and  principles,  you  know  ;  treating  each  other 
roughlj* — too  roughly  —  without  gloves,  and,  as  usual  in 
such  cases,  exchanging  shots  by  way  of  concluding  an  ill- 
adjusted  argument.  There's  no  danger  of  anything,  but 
what  we  please,  meeting  Beauchampe's  ears  about  this  affair 
with  Calvert." 

"  But,  by  Jove,  Sharpe,  this  is  a  d d  ticklish  situation 

to  be  in.  I'd  rather  you  were  not  here  in  his  house.  I'd 
rather  be  elsewhere  myself." 

"  You  are  certainly  the  most  timid  mortal.  Will  you  set 
off  to-morrow  with  your  lame  horse  ?" 

"  If  he  can  hobble  at  all,  I  will,  by  Jove  !  I  don't  like 
the  situation  we're  in  at  all." 

"  And  by  Venus,  friend  Barnabas,  if  such  be  your  deter 
mination,  you  set  off  alone.  I'm  not  going  to  give  up  my 
treasure  the  moment  I  find  it,  for  any  Beauchampe  or  Bar 
nabas  of  you  all.  No  —  no!  my  most  excellent,  but  most 
apprehensive  friend —  having  seen  her,  how  can  you  think 
it?  But  you  have  neither  eyes  nor  passion.  By  Heavens, 
Barnabas,  I  am  all  in  a  convulsion  of  joy  !  I  see  her  before 
me  now  —  those  dilating  eyes,  wild,  bright,  almost  fierce 
in  their  brightness,  like  those  of  an  eagle  ;  those  lips,  that 
brow,  and  that  full  and  heaving  bosom,  whose  sweets— 

"  Hush  !  you  are  mad  ;  if  you  must  feel  these  raptures, 
Sharpe,  for  God's  sake  say  nothing  about  them.  They  will 
hear  you  in  the  adjoining  room." 

«  No — no  !  it  is  your  silly  fears,  Barnabas.  I  am  speak 
ing  in  a  whisper." 

"  I) — n  such  whispers,  say  I.  They  can  be  heard  by 
keen  ears  half  a  mile.  But  you  say  you  spoke  with  her — 
what  did  she  saj  ?  Did  she  abuse  you  ?" 


THE    nUND    SEKKKIl    A  FTEII    FATK.  2/>( 

"No!  indeed!" 

"  Is  it  possible  —  the  b  -" 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  You  do  not  understand  her.  Sue  did 
not  abuse  me,  for -of  Billingsgate  she  knows  nothing,  You 
must  not  think  of  her  as  of  your  ordinary  town  wenches 
She  is  too  proud  for  any  such  proceeding.  She  threatened 
me." 

"Ah!     How?" 

"  With  her  own  vengeance  and  that  of  her  husband.  I  old 
me  she  had  the  weapon  for  me  ready  sharpened,  and  the 
pistol  shotted,  and  had  kept  them  ready  for  years." 

"  The  Tartar  !  and  what  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Laughed,  of  course  ;  and,  but  for  the  coming  of  the 
lantern  and  the  husband,  I  should  have  silenced  her  threats 
by  stopping  her  mouth  with  kisses." 

"  You're  a  dare-devil,  Sharpe,  and  you'll  have  your  throat 
cut  some  day  by  some  husband  or  other." 

"  Your  whiskers  will  be  gray  enough  before  that  time 
comes.  You  know  husbands  quite  as  little  as  you  know 
wives.  Now,  as  soon  as  Margaret  Cooper  began  to  threaten 
me,  I  knew  I  was  safe." 

"  Devilish  strange  sort  of  security  that." 

"  True  and  certain,  nevertheless.  People  who  threaten 
much  seldom  perform.  But  I  have  even  better  security  thar 
this." 

"  What's  that  ?" 

"  She  loves  me." 

"  What !  you  think  so  still,  do  you  ?  You're  a  conceited 
fellow." 

"  I  know  it !  That  first  passion,  Barnabas,  is  the  longest 
lived.  You  can  not  expel  it.  It  holds  on,  it  lasts  longer 
than  youth.  It  is  the  chief  memory  of  youth.  It  recalls 
youth,  revives  it,  and  revives  all  the  joys  which  came  with 
youth  —  the  bloom,  the  freshness  and  the  fragrance.  Do 
you  think  that  Margaret  Cooper  can  forget  that  it  was  my 
lips  that  first  gave  birth  to  the  passion  of  love  within  hei 


bosom  —  that  first  awakened  its  glow,  and  taught  hci  — 
what  before  she  never  knew  —  that  there  were  joys  still 
left  to  earth,  which  could  yet  restore  all  the  fabled  bliss  of 
Eden?  Not  easily,  mon  ami!  No,  Barnabas — the  man 
who  has  once  taught  a  woman  how  to  love,  may  be,  if  he 
pleases,  the  perpetual  master  of  her  fate.  She  can  not 
help  but  love  him  —  she  must  obey  —  and  none  but  a  fool  or 
a  madman  can  forfeit  the  allegiance  which  her  heart  will 
always  be  ready  to  pay  to  his." 

"  I  don't  know,  Sharpe  —  you  always  talk  these  thing.; 
well ;  but  I  can't  help  thinking  that  there's  danger.  There's 
something  in  this  woman's  looks  very  different  from  the  or 
dinary  run  of  women." 

/(  She  is  different,  so  far  as  superiority  makes  her  differ 
ent,  but  the  same  nature  is  hers  which  belongs  to  all.  Love 
is  the  fate  that  makes  or  unmakes  the  whole  world  of 
woman." 

"  Maybe  so  ;  but  this  woman  seems  as  proud,  and  cold, 
and  stately — " 

"  Masks,  my  boy  —  glorious  masks,  that  help  to  conceal 
as  much  fire  and  passion,  and  tumultuous  love,  as  ever 
flamed  in  any  woman's  breast." 

"  She  awes  me  with  her  looks,  and  if  she  threatened  you, 
Snarpe,  she  seems  to  me  the  very  woman  to  keep  her 
threats." 

"  If  she  had  not  threatened  me,  Barnabas,  I  should  have 
probably  set  out  to-night." 

"  It  will  be  a  wise  step  to  do  so  in  the  morning." 

"  No  —  no  !  my  dear  fellow.  Neither  you  nor  I  go  in  the 
morning.  Fortune  favors  me  !  She  has  thrown  in  my  way 
the  only  treasure  which  I  did  not  willingly  throw  aside  my 
self,  and  wrhich  I  have  so  long  sighed,  but  in  vain,  to  re 
cover.  Shall  I  now  refuse  to  pick  it  up  and  enshrine  it  in 
my  breast  once  more?  No  —  no!  Barnabas!  I  am  no 
Ptoic  —  1  am  no  such  profligate  insensible  !" 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean — " 


THE    BLIND   SEEKER    AFTER    FATE.  257 

The  inquiry  was  conveyed,  and  the  sentence  finished  by 
a  look. 

"  Do  I  not !  Call  me  slave,  ass,  dotard  —  anything  that 
can  express  contempt  —  if  I  do  not.  And  hark  ye,  Barna 
bas,  you  must  help  me." 

"  I  help  you  ?  I'll  be  d d  if  I  do  !  What !  to  have 

this  fellow,  Beauchampe,  slit  my  carotid  ?  Never  !  never  !" 

"  Pshaw,  you  are  getting  cowardly  in  your  old  age." 

"  I  tell  you  this  fellow,  Beauchampe,  is  a  sort  of  Mohawk 
when  he's  roused." 

"And  I  tell  you,  Barnabas,  there's  no  sort  of  danger — 
none  at  least  to  you.  All  that  you  will  have  to  do  will  be 
to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  You  wish  to  ride  round  the 
country  —I  do  not.  You  wish  to  try  the  birds — nay,  he 
can  even  get  up  an  elk-hunt  for  you.  He  knows  that  I 
have  no  passion  for  these  things,  and  it  will  seem  natural 
enough  that  I  should  remain  at  home.  Do  you  take  ?  At 
the  worst,  I  am  the  offender  —  and  the  danger  will  be  mine 
only.  But  there  will  be  no  danger.  I  tell  you  that  Mar 
garet  Cooper  has  only  changed  in  name.  In  all  other  re 
spects  she  is  the  same.  There  can  be  no  danger  if  Beau 
champe  chooses  to  remain  blind,  and  if  you  will  assist  me  in 
keeping  him  so." 

"  1  don't  half  like  it,  Sharpe." 

"  Pshaw  !  my  good  fellow,  there's  no  good  reason  why 
you  should  like  or  dislike.  The  simple  question  is,  whether, 
in  a  matter  which  will  not  affect  you  one  way  or  the  other, 
you  are  willing  to  serve  your  friend.  That  is  the  true  and 
only  question.  You  see  for  yourself  that  there  can  be  no 
danger  to  you.  I  am  sure  there's  no  danger  to  anybody. 
At  all  events,  be  the  danger  what  it  may,  and  take  you 
what  steps  you  please,  I  am  resolved  on  mine.  Reconcile 
to  yourself,  as  you  may,  the  desertion  of  your  friend,  in  con 
sequence  of  a  timidity  which  has  no  cause  whatever  of 
alarm." 

Sharpe  rose  at  this  moment,  kicked  off  his  boots,  and 


258  BEAUCHAMPE. 

prepared  to  undress.  The  effect  of  a  strong  will  upon  & 
feeble  one  was  soon  obvious.  Barnabas  hesitated  stifl, 
hemmed  and  .ha'd,  dilated  once  more  upon  the  danger, 
and  finally  subsided  into  a  mood  of  the  most  perfect  com 
pliance  with  all  the  requisitions  of  Inn  friend.  They  carried 
the  discussion  still  farther  into  the  night,  but  that  is  no 
reason  why  we  should  trespass  longer  upon  the  sleeping 
hours  of  our  readers. 


THE   SERPENT    AT    HIS    OLD   SUBTLETIES.  26& 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE   SERPSNT    AT    HIS   OLD   SUBTLETIES. 

IT  was  no  difficult  matter,  in  carrying  out  the  design  of 
Sharpe,  to  send  Barnabas  abroad  the  next  morning  in  charge 
of  Beauchampe.  Sharpe  had  a  convenient  headache,  and 
declined  the  excursion  ;  proposing,  very  deliberately,  to  the 
husband,  to  console  himself  for  Ins  absence  in  the  company 
of  the  wife. 

The  latter  was  not  present  when  the  arrangement  was 
made.  It  took  place  at  the  stables,  after  breakfast,  while 
they  were  engaged  in  the  examination  of  the  injured  horse 
of  Mr.  Barnabas  ;  and  this  gentleman,  with  his  cicerone,  set 
forth  from  the  spot,  leaving  Sharpe,  at  his  own  leisure,  to 
return  to  the  house. 

Having  seen  them  fairly  off,  he  did  so  with  the  delibera 
tion  of  one  having  a  settled  purpose.  For  his  reappearance, 
alone,  Mrs.  Beauchampe  was  entirely  unprepared.  As  he 
entered  the  room  where  she  was  sitting,  she  rose  to  leave 
it,  though  without  any  symptoms  of  haste  or  agitation.  He 
placed  himself  between  her  and  the  door,  and  thus  effectu 
ally  prevented  her  egress. 

She  fixed  her  eye  keenly  and  coldly  upon  him. 

"Alfred  Stevens,"  she  said,  "you  are  trifling  with  your 
fate/1 

"  Call  it  not  trifling,  dear  Margaret.  You  arc  my  fate, 
and  I  never  was  more  earnest  in  mv  life.  Do  not  show 


J.-J'  BEAUCHAMPE. 

yourself  so  inflexible.     After  so  long  a  separation,  such 
coldness  is  cruel  —  it  is  unnatural/' 

"  You  say  truly,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  am  your  fate.  I  have 
long  felt  the  persuasion  that  I  would  be ;  and  I  had  pro- 
pared  myself  for  it.  Still,  I  would  it  were  not  so.  1  would 
not  have  your  blood  either  on  mine  or  the  hands  of  Beau 
cliampc.  I  implored  you  last  night  to  spare  me  this  neces 
sity.  It  is  not  yet  too  late.  Trifle  not  with  your  destiny 
—  waste  not  the  moments  which  are  left  you.  Perse /ere 
in  this  course  of  madness  for  a  day  longer,  and  you  are 
doomed!  Hear  me — believe  "me!  I  speak  mildly  and 
with  method.  I  am  speaking  to  you  the  convictions  of  five 
dreary  years." 

The  calm,  even,  almost  gentle  manner  and  subdued  ac 
cents  of  the  woman,  had  the  effect  of  encouragement  rather 
than  of  warning  to  the  vain  and  self-deceiving  roue.  He 
was  deceived  by  her  bearing.  lie  was  not  so  profound  a 
proficient  as  he  fancied  himself  in  the  secrets  of  a  wo 
man's  heart ;  and,  firmly  persuaded  of  the  notion  that  he 
had  expressed  to  Barnabas,  in  the  conversation  of  the  pre 
vious  night,  that  women  are  never  so  little  dangerous  as 
when  they  threaten,  he  construed  all  that  she  said  into  a 
sort  of  ruse  de  guerre,  the  more  certainly  to  conceal  her 
real  weakness. 

"  Come,  come,  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  it  is  you  that  trifle, 
not  me.  This  is  no  time  for  crimination  and  complaint. 
Let  me  atone  to  you  for  the  past.  Believe  me,  you  vm>n«: 
me  if  you  suppose  I  meant  to  desert  you.  I  was  the  victim 
of  circumstances  as  well  as  yourself — circumstances  which 
I  can  easily  explain  to  you,  and  which  will  certainly  excuse 
me  for  any  seeming  breach  of  faith.  If  you  ever  loved  me, 
dear  Margaret,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  believe  what  I  am 
prepared  to  affirm." 

"  I  do  not  doubt,  sir,  that  you  are  prepared  to  affirm 
anything.  But  I  ask  VGM  neither  for  proofs  nor  oaths. 
Why  should  you  volunteer  them  unasked,  undesired  'i  1 


THE    SEKPENT    AT    HIS    OLD    SUBTLETIES.  2l>l 

have  no  wish  to  make  you  add  a  second  perjury  to  the 
first." 

"  It  is  no  perjury,  Margaret ;  and  you  must  hear  me.  I 
claim  it  for  my  own  justification." 

"  I  will  not  hear  you,  sir  !  If  you  are  so  well  assured  of 
your  justification,  let  that  consciousness  content  you.  I  do 
not  accuse  —  I  will  not  reproach  you.  Go  your  ways  — 
leave  me  to  mine.  Surely,  surely,  Alfred  Stevens,  it  is  the 
least  boon  that  I  could  solicit  at  your  hands,  that,  having 
trampled  me  to  the  dust  in  shame — having  robbed  me  of 
peace  and  pride  for  ever — you  should  now  leave  me,  with 
out  further  persecution,  to  the  homely  privacy  which  thi 
rest  of  my  life  requires." 

"  Do  not  call  it  persecution,  Margaret.  It  is  love  —  lov« 
only!  You  were  my  first  love — you  shall  be  my  last.  I 
can  not  be  deceived,  dear  Margaret,  when  I  assume  that  I 
was  yours.  We  were  destined  for  each  other ;  and  when 
I  recall  to  your  memory  those  happy  hours — " 

"  Recall  them  at  your  peril,  Alfred  Stevens !''  she  ex 
claimed  vehemently,  interrupting  him  in  the  speech  ;  "  recall 
tli em  at  your  peril !  Too  vividly  black  already  are  those 
moments  in  my  memory.  Spare  me  —  spare  yourself!  Be 
ware  !  be  warned  in  season  !  0  man  !  man  !  blind  and  des 
perate,  you  know  not  how  nearly  you  stand  on  the  brink 
of  the  precipice !" 

Be  regarded  her  with  eyes  full  of  affected  admiration. 

'  At  least,  Margaret,  whatever  may  be  the  falling  off  in 
your  love,  your  genius  seems  to  be  as  fresh  and  vigorous  as 
ever.  There  is  the  same  high  poetical  enthusiasm  in  your 
voids  and  thoughts,  the  same  burning  eloquence— 

"•  Colonel  Sharpc,  these  things  deceive  me  no  longer.  I 
regard  them  now  as  the  disparaging  mockeries  of  a  subtle 
and  base  spirit,  meant  to  beguile  and  abuse  the  confidence 
of  a  frank  and  unsuspecting  one.  I  am  no  longer  unsus 
pecting.  1  am  no  longer  the  blind,  vain  country-girl,  whom 
with  ungenerous  cunning  you  could  deceive  and  dishonor 


262  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Shame  and  grief,  which  you  brought  to  my  dwelling,  have 
taught  me  lessons  of  truth  and  humiliation,  if  not  wisdom. 
What  you  say  to  me  now,  in  the  way  of  praise,  does  not 
exhilarate  —  can  i:ot  deceive  me  —  and  may  exasperate! 
Once  more  I  say  to  you,  beware !" 

"All,  Margaret!  are  you  sure  that  you  do  not  deceive 
yourself  also  in  what  you  say  ?  Allow  that  you  care  noth 
ing  for  praise  —  allow  that  your  ear  has  become  insensible 
to  the  language  of  admiration  —  surely  it  can  not  be  insen 
sible  to  that  of  love." 

"  Love !  — your  love  !" 

"  Yes,  Margaret — my  love.  You  were  not  insensibb  to 
it  once." 

"  I  implore  you  not  to  remind  me !" 

"  Ah,  but  I  must,  Margaret.  Those  moments  were  too 
precious  to  me  to  be  forgotten  ;  the  memory  of  those  joys 
too  dear.  Bitter  was  the  grief  which  1  felt  when  compelled 
to  fly  from  a  region  in  which  1  had  taught,  and  been  learned 
myself,  the  first  true  mysteries  which  I  had  ever  known  of 
love.  Think  you  that  I  could  forget  those  mysteries  — 
those  joys  ?  Oh,  never !  nor  could  you  !  On  that  convic 
tion  my  hope  is  built.  Wherever  I  fled,  that  memory  was 
with  me  still.  It  was  my  present  solace  under  every  diffi 
culty —  the  sweetening  drop  in  every  cup  which  my  iips 
were  compelled  to  drink  of  bitter  and  annoyance.  Marga 
ret,  I  can  not  think  that  you  did  not  love  me ;  I  can  not 
think  that  you  do  not  love  me  still.  It  is  impossible  that 
you  should  have  forgotten  what  we  both  once  knew  of  rap 
ture  in  those  dear  moments  at  Charlemont.  And  having 
loved  me  then  —  having  given  to  me  the  first  youthful  emo 
tions  of  your  bosom — you  surely  can  not  love  this  Beau- 
champe.  No,  no !  love  can  not  be  so  suddenly  exun 
iruished.  The  altar  may  have  been  deserted ;  the  nre, 
untLMided,  it  may  have  grown  dim  ;  but  it  is  the  sacred  fire 
that  can  never  utterly  go  out.  I  can  understand,  dearest 
Margaret,  that  it  is  proper,  that,  having  formed  these  new 


THE   SERPENT    AT    HIS   OLD   SUBTLETIES.  263 

ties,  you  should  maintain  appearances  ;  but  these  appear 
ances  need  not  be  fatal  to  Love,  though  they  may  require 
prudence  at  his  hands.  Have  no  fear  that  my  passion  will 
offend  against  prudence.  No,  dearest  Margaret,  the  kiss 
will  be  the  sweeter  now,  as  it  was  among  the  groves  of 
Charlemont,  from  being  stolen  in  secret/7 

She  receded  a  few  steps  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  and 
at  the  close  sunk  into  a  chair.  He  approached  her.  She 
waved  him  oif  in  a  manner  that  could  not  be  set  at  naught. 
A  burning  flush  was  upon  her  face,  and  the  compression  of 
her  lips  denoted  the  strong  working  of  a  settled  but  stilled 
resolution.  She  spoke  at  length  :— 

"  I  have  heard  you  to  the  close,  Alfred  Stevens.  I  un 
derstand  you.  You  speak  with  sufficient  boldness  now. 
Would  to  God  you  had  only  declared  yourself  thus  boldly 
in  the  groves  of  Charlemont!  Could  I  have  seen  then,  as 
I  do  now,  the  tongue  of  the  serpent,  and  the  cloven  foot 
of  the  fiend,  I  had  not  been  what  I  am  now,  nor  would  you 
have  dared  to  speak  these  accursed  words  in  my  ears !" 

"  Margaret — " 

"Stay,  sir!  I  have  heard  you  patiently.  The  shame 
which  follows  guilt  required  thus  much  of  me.  You  shall 
now  hear  me  !" 

"  Will  I  not,  Margaret  ?  Ah  !  though  your  words  con 
tinue  thus  bitter,  still  it  is  a  pleasure  to  hearken  to  your 
words." 

A  keen,  quick  flash  of  indignation  brightened  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  suppress,"  she  said,  "  I  suppress  much  more  than  I 
speak.  I  will  confine  my  speech  to  that  which  seems  only 
accessary.  Once  more,  then,  Colonel  Sharpe,  I  understand 
your  meaning.  I  do  not  disguise  from  you  the  fact  that 
nothing  more  is  necessary  to  a  full  comprehension  of  the 
foul  purposes  which  fill  your  breast.  But  my  reply  is  ready. 
I  can  not  second  them.  I  hate  you  with  the  most  bitter 
loathing.  I  behold  you  with  scorn  and  detestation  —  as  a 


26-i  BEAUCHAMPE. 

creature  equally  malignant  and  contemptible  —  as  a  villain 
beyond  measure  — as  a  coward  below  contempt — as  a  trai 
tor  to  every  noble  sentiment  of  humanity — having  the  mal 
ice  of  the  fiend  without  his  nobleness,  and  with  every  char 
acteristic  of  the  snake  but  his  shape  !  Judge,  then,  for 
yourself,  with  what  prospect  you  pursue  your  purpose  with 
me,  when  such  are  the  feelings  I  bear  you  —  when  such  are 
the  opinions  which  I  hold  you  in." 

"  I  can  not  believe  you,  Margaret !"  and  his  mortified 
vanity  showed  itself  in  his  angry  visage.  The  truth  was 
equally  strange  and  terrible  to  his  ears. 

"  God  be  witness  that  I  speak  the  truth !" 

"  Margaret,  it  is  you  that  trifle  with  your  fate.  If,  m 
truth,  you  despise  my  love,  you  can  not  surely  despise  my 
power.  It  is  now  my  turn  to  give  you  warning.  I  do  not 
threaten,  but — beware  !" 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  confronted  him  with  eyes 
that  flashed  the  defiance  of  a  spirit  above  all  apprehension. 

"  Your  power  !  your  power  I  you  give  me  warning — you 
threaten!  Do  I  rightly  hear  you?  Speak  out!  I  would 
not  now  misunderstand  you  !  No,  no  !  never  again  must  I 
misunderstand  you  !  What  is  it  you  threaten  ?" 

"  You  do  misunderstand  me,  Margaret :  I  do  not  threaten. 
I  seek  to  counsel  only  —  to  warn  you  that  I  have  power ; 
and  that  there  can  be  no  good  policy  in  making  me  your 
enemy." 

"  You  are  mine  enemy :  you  have  ever  been  my  worst 
enemy !  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  again  commit  the 
monstrous  error  of  thinking  you  my  friend !" 

u  I  am  your  friend,  and  would  be.  Nay,  more,  in  spite 
of  this  scorn  which  you  express  for  me,  and  which  I  can 
not  believe,  I  love  you,  Margaret,  better,  far  better,  than  I 
have  ever  loved  woman. " 

44  You  have  a  wife,  Colonel  Sharpe  ?" 

tk  Yes  — but— " 

"  And  children  ?" 


THE   SERPENT    AT    HIS    OLD   SUBTLETIES.  265 


u  For  their  sakes  —  I  do  not  plead  for  myself,  nor  for 
you  —  for  their  sakes,  once  more  I  implore  you  to  forbear 
this  pursuit.  Persecute  me  no  longer.  Do  not  deceive 
yourself  with  the  vain  belief  that  I  have  any  feeling  for  you 
but  that  which  I  now  express.  I  hate  and  loathe  you  —  nay, 
ain  sworn,  and  again  swear,  to  destroy  you,  unless  you  de 
sist  —  unless  you  leave  me,  and  leave  me  for  ever!" 

Her  subdued  tones  again  deceived  him.  He  caught  her 
hand,  as  she  waved  it  in  the  utterance  of  the  last  sentence. 
He  carried  it  to  his  lips  ;  but,  hastily  withdrawing  it  from 
his  grasp,  she  smote  him  upon  the  mouth  in  the  next  in 
stant,  and,  as  he  darted  toward  her,  threw  open  the  drawer 
of  a  table  which  stood  within  arm's  length  of  her  position, 
and  pulling  from  it  a  pistol,  confronted  him  with  its  muzzle. 
He  recoiled,  more  perhaps  with  surprise  than  alarm.  She 
cocked  the  weapon,  thrust  it  toward  him  with  all  the  man 
ner  of  one  determined  upon  its  use,  and  with  the  ease  and 
air  of  one  to  whom  the  use  of  the  weapon  is  familiar. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  single  instant,  in  which  it  was 
doubtful  whether  she  would  draw  the  trigger  or  not  —  doubt 
ful  even  to  Sharpe  himself.  But,  with  that  pause,  a  more 
human  feeling  came  to  her  bosom.  Her  arm  sunk  —  the 
weapon  was  suilered  to  fall  by  her  side,  and  she  said,  with 
faltering  voice  :  — 

"Go!  I  spare  you  for  the  sake  of  the  unhappy  woman, 
your  wife.  Go,  sir:  it  is  well  for  you  that  I  remembered 
her." 

"  Margaret  !  this  from  you  ?'' 

"  And  from  whom  with  more  propriety  ?  Know,  Alfred 
Stevens,  that  this  weapon  was  prepared  for  you  last  night; 
nay,  more,  that  mine  is  no  inexpert  hand  in  its  use.  For 
five  years,  day  by  day,  have  I  practised  this  very  weapon 
at  a  mark,  thinking  of  you  only  as  the  object  upon  whom  it 
was  necessary  I  should  use  it.  Think  you,  then,  what  you 
escape,  and  return  thanks  to  Heaven  that  brought  to  my 

12 


266  BEAUCHAMPE. 

thought,  in  the  very  moment  when  your  life  hung  upon  the 
smallest  movement  of  my  finger,  the  recollection  of  your 
wife  and  innocent  children  !  Judge  for  yourself  who  has 
most  to  fear,  you  or  myself." 

"  Still,  Margaret,  there  is  a  cause  of  fear  which  you  do 
not  seem  to  see." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

<-  Not  the  loss  of  life,  perhaps.  That,  I  can  readily  im 
agine,  is  not  likely  to  be  a  cause  of  much  fear  with  a  proud, 
strong-minded  woman  like  yourself.  But  there  arc  sub 
jects  of  apprehension  infinitely  greater  than  this,  particu 
larly  to  a  woman,  a  wife,  and  to  you  more  than  all — your 
husband !" 

"What  of  my  husband?" 

"  A  single  word  from  me  to  him,  and  where  is  your  peace, 
your  security  ?  Ha  !  am  I  now  understood  ?  Do  you  not 
see,  Margaret,  do  you  not  feel,  that  I  have  power,  with  a 
word,  more  effectually  to  destroy  than  even  pistol-bullet 
could  do  it?" 

"And  this  is  your  precious  thought!"  she  said,  with  a 
look  of  bitter,  smiling  contempt ;  kk  and,  with  the  baseness 
which  so  completely  makes  your  nature,  you  would  lay  bare 
to  my  husband  the  unhappy  guilt  in  which,  through  your 
own  foul  arts,  my  girlish  innocence  was  lost!  What  a 
brave  treachery  would  this  be !" 

"  Nay,  Margaret,  but  I  do  not  threaten  this.  I  only  de 
clare  what  might  be  the  effect  of  your  provoking  me  beyond 
patience." 

"  Oh  !  you  are  moderate — very  moderate.  1  look  on 
you,  Alfred  Stevens,  from  head  to  foot,  and  doubt  my  eyes 
that  tell  me  I  behold  a  man.  The  shape  is  there  —  the  outr 
•side  of  that  noble  animal,  but  it  is  sure  a  fraud.  The  beast- 
fiend  has  usurped  the  nobler  carcass,  himself  being  all  the 
while  unchanged." 

"  Margaret,  this  scorn — " 

"  Is  due,  not  less  to  your  fully  than  your  baseness,  as  yon 


THE  SERPENT  AT  HIS  OLD  SUBTLETIES.       267 

will  see  when  I  have  told  you  all.  Know  then,  that  when 
1  gave  this  hand  to  Orville  Beauchampe  —  nay,  before  it 
was  given  to  him,  and  while  he  was  yet  at  liberty  to  re 
nounce  it  —  I  told  him  that  it  was  a  dishonored  hand." 

"  You  did  not !     You  could  not !" 

"  By  the  God  that  hears  me,  I  did.  I  told  him  the  whole 
story  of  my  folly  and  my  shame.  Oh  !  Alfred  Stevens,  if  in 
truth  you  had  loved  me  as  you  professed,  you  would  have 
known  that  it  was  not  in  my  nature  to  stoop  to  fraud  and 
concealment  at  such  a  time.  Could  you  think  that  I  would 
avail  myself  of  the  generous  ardor  of  that  noble  youth  to 
suffer  him,  unwittingly,  to  link  himself  to  possible  shame? 
No  —  no  !  His  magnanimity,  his  love,  the  warmth  of  his 
affections,  the  loftiness  of  his  soul,  his  genius  —  all  —  all  de 
manded  of  me  the  most  perfect  confidence  ;  and  I  gave  it 
him.  I  withheld  nothing,  except,  it  seems,  the  true  name 
c1"  my  deceiver !" 

UI  can  not,  believe  it,  Margaret  —  Beauchampe  never 
would  have  married  you  with  this  knowledge." 

u  On  my  life,  he  did.  Every  syllable  was  spoken  in  his 
ears.  Nay,  more,  Colonel  Sharpe  —  and  let  this  be  another 
warning  to  you  to  forbear  and  lly  —  I  swore  Beauchampe  on 
the  Holy  Evangelists,  ere  he  made  my  hand  his  own,  to 
avenge  my  dishonor  on  my  betrayer.  I  made  that  the  con 
dition  of  my  hand  !" 

u  And  why  now  would  you  forbear  prosecuting  this  veil 
goance  ?  Why,  if  you  were  so  resolved  upon  it  —  why  do 
you  counsel  me  to  fly  from  the  danger  ?  Do  you  mean  to 
declare  the  truth  to  Beauchampe  when  I  am  gone  ?" 

(i  No  !  not  if  you  leave  me,  and  promise  me  never  again 
to  seek  either  me  or  him." 

«  >J0  —  no  f  Margaret,  this  story  lacks  probability.  I  can 
cot  believe  it.  I  am  a  lawyer,  you  must  remember.  These 
inconsistencies  are  too  strong.  You  swear  your  husband 
on  the  Holy  Evangelists  to  take  my  life,  and  the  next  mo 
ment  shield  me  from  the  danger  !  Now,  the  ferocious  hate 


2G8  BRAUCHAMPE 

which  induced  the  first  proceeding  can  not  be  so  easily 
quieted,  as  in  a  little  month  after,  to  effect  the  second. 
The  whole  story  is  defective.  Margaret — it  lacks  all  prob 
ability." 

li  Be  it  so.  You  arc  a  lawyer,  and  no  doubt  a  wise  one. 
The  story  may  seem  improbable  to  you,  but  it  is  true  never 
theless.  However  strange  and  inconsistent,  it  is  yet  not 
unnatural.  The  human  tics  which  bind  me  to  earth  have 
grown  stronger  since  my  marriage,  and,  for  this  reason,  if 
lor  no  other,  I  would  have  the  hands  of  my  husband  free 
from  the  stain  of  human  blood,  even  though  that  blood  be 
yours  !  For  this  reason  1  have  condescended  to  expostu 
late  with  you  —  to  implore  you  !  For  this  reason  do  I  still 
implore  and  expostulate.  Leave  me — leave  this  house  the 
moment  your  friend  returns.  Avoid  Bcauchampe  as  well 
as  myself.  There  are  a  thousand  easy  modes  for  breaking 
off  an  intimacy.  Adopt  any  one  of  these  which  shall  seem 
least  offensive.  Spare  me  the  necessity  of  declaring  to  my 
husband  that  the  victim  he  is  sworn  to  slay,  is  the  person 
who  has  pretended  to  be  his  friend." 

The  philosophical  poet  tells  us,  that  he  whom  God  seeke 
to  destroy  he  first  renders  a  lunatic.  In  the  conceit  of  his 
soul,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  legal  subtlety,  and  with  that 
blinding  assurance  that  he  could  not  lose,  by  any  process, 
the  affections  he  had  once  won,  Sharpe  persisted  in  believ 
ing  that  the  story  to  which  he  listened,  was  in  truth,  noth 
ing  more  than  an  expedient  of  the  woman  to  rid  herself  01 
the  presence  and  the  attentions  which  she  rather  feared 
than  disliked,  lie  neither  believed  that  she  had  told  the 
truth  to  Bcauchampe,  nor  that  she  loathed  him  as  she  had 
declared.  Himself  of  a  narrow  and  slavish  mind/  he  could 
not  conceive  the  magnanimity  of  soul,  which,  in  such  a  case 
as  that  of  Margaret  Cooper,  would  declare  her  dishonor  to 
a  lover  seeking  her  hand  —  still  less  was  he  willing  to  be 
lieve  iu  the  further  stretch  of  magnanimity,  on  the  part  o( 
Beauchampe,  in  marrying  any  woman  in  the  teeth  of  sue. 


THE   SERPENT    AT    HIS    OLD   SUBTLETIES.  269 

a  revelation.  We  may  add,  that,  with  such  a  prodigious 
degree  of  self-esteem  as  lie  himself  possessed,  the  improba 
bility  was  equally  great  that  Margaret  should  ever  cease  to 
regard  him  with  the  devotedncss  of  love.  lie  had  taken 
for  granted  that  it  was  through  the  medium  of  her  affec 
tions  that  she  became  his  victim,  though  all  his  arts  were 
,nade  to  bear  upon  other  characteristics  of  her  moral  nature, 
entirely  different  from  those  which  belong  to  the  tender 
passion.  A  vain  man  finds  it  easy  to  deceive  himself,  if  he 
deceives  nobody  else.  Here,  then,  was  a  string  of  improb 
abilities  which  it  required  the  large  faith  of  a  liberal  spirit 
to  overcome.  Sharpe  was  not  a  man  of  liberal  spirit,  and 
such  men  are  usually  incredulous  where  the  magnanimity 
of  noble  souls  is  the  topic.  Small  wits  are  always  of  this 
character.  Skepticism  is  their  shield  and  even  sevenfold 
coat-of-mail,  and  incredulity  is  the  safe  wisdom  of  timidity 
and  self-esteem.  Such  men  neither  believe  in  their  neigh 
bors  or  in  the  novel  truths  which  they  happen  to  teach. 
They  pay  the  penalty  in  most  cases  by  dying  in  their  blind 
ness. 

Will  this  be  the  case  with  the  party  before  us  V  Time 
will  show.  At  all  events,  the  earnest  adjurations  of  the 
passionate  and  full-souled  woman  were  entirely  thrown  away 
upon  him.  What  she  had  said  had  startled  him  at  first ; 
but  with  the  usual  obduracy  of  self-esteem,  lie  had  soon 
recovered  from  his  momentary  discomposure.  He  shook 
his  head  slowly,  while  a  smile  on  his  lips  declared  his 
doubts. 

•'  No,  Margaret,  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  have  told 
these  things  to  Beauchampe.  I  know  you  better,  and  I 
know  well  that  he  could  never  have  married  you,  having  a 
knowledge  of  the  truth.  You  can  not  deceive  me,  Marga 
ret,  and  wherefore  should  you  try  ?  Why  would  you  re 
ject  the  love  which  was  so  dear  to  you  in  Charlemont ;  and 
\iyou  can  do  this,  /can  not  ?  I  love  you  too  well,  Marga 
ret —  remember  too  keenly  the  delights  of  our  first  union 


270  BEAUCHAMPE.    , 

and  will  not  believe  in  the  necessity  that  denies  that  we 
should  meet.  No  —  no  !  Once  found,  I  will  not  lose  you 
again,  Margaret.  You  are  too  precious  in  my  sight.  We 
must  see  and  meet  each  other  often.  Beauchampc  shall 
still  be  my  friend  —  his  marriage  with  you  has  made  him 
doubly  dear  to  me.  So  far  from  cutting  him,  I  shall  find 
occasions  for  making  his  household  a  place  of  my  constant 
pilgrimage  ;  and  do  not  sacrifice  yourself  by  vain  opposition 
to  this  intimacy.  It  will  do  no  good  and  may  do  harm.  I 
can  make  his  fortune  ;  and  1  will,  if  you  will  hear  reason. 
But  you  must  remove  to  Frankfort — be  a  dutiful  wife  in 
doing  so  ;  and  —  for  this  passion  of  revenge  —  believe  that 
I  was  quite  as  much  afflicted  as  yourself  by  the  necessity 
that  tore  us  asunder — as  was  the  truth  —  and  you  will  for 
give  the  involuntary  crime,  and  forget  everything  but  the 
dear  delights  of  that  happy  period.  Do  you  hear  me,  Mar 
garet — you  do  not  seem  to  listen !" 

She  regarded  him  with  a  countenance  of  melancholy 
scorn,  which  seemed  also  equally  expressive  of  hopelessness 
and  pity.  It  seemed  as  if  she  was  at  a  loss  which  senti 
ment  most  decidedly  to  entertain.  Looking  thus,  but  ir, 
perfect  silence,  she  rose,  and  taking  the  pistol  from  the 
table  where  it  had  lain,  she  advanced  toward  the  door  of 
the  apartment.  lie  would  have  followed  her,  but  .she 
paused  when  at  the  door,  and  turning,  said  to  him  :  — 

"  If  I  knew,  Colonel  Sharpe,  by  what  form  of  oath  I 
could  make  you  believe  what  I  have  said,  I  would  assev 
erate  solemnly  its  truth.  I  am  anxious  for  your  sake,  for 
my  sake,  and  the  sake  of  my  husband,  that  you  should  be- 
iieve  me.  As  God  will  judge  us  all,  I  have  spoken  nothing 
but  the  truth.  I  would  save  you,  and  spare  myself  the 
necessity  of  any  further  revelations.  Life  is  still  dear  to 
me  —  peace  is  everything  to  me  now.  It  is  to  secure  this 
peace  that  I  suppress  my  ieehngs  —  that  I  still  implore  you 
to  listen  to  me  and  to  believe.  Be  merciful.  Spare  me  1 
Spare  yourself.  Propose  any  form  of  oath  which  you  con 


THE   SEHPENT    AT    HIS    Ot^D    SUBTLETIES.  271 

sider  most  solemn,  most  binding,  and  I  will  repeat  it  on  my 
knees,  in  confirmation  of  what  I  have  said  !  for  on  my  soul 
I  have  spoken  nothing  but  the  truth !" 

He  laughed  and  shook  his  head,  as  he  advanced  to  where 
she  stood. 

"  Nay,  nay,  Margaret  — the  value  of  oaths  in  such  cases 
is  but  small.  No  form  of  oath  can  be  very  binding.  Jove, 
you  know,  laughs  at  the  perjuries  of  lovers  ;  and  if  we  are 
lovers  no  longer — which  I  can  not  easily  believe  —  the 
business  between  us,  is  so  certainly  a  lover's  business,  that 
Jove  will  laugh  none  the  less  at  the  vows  we  violate  in  car 
rying  it  on.  You  take  it  too  seriously,  Margaret  —  it  is 
you  that  are  not  wise.  You  can  not  deceive  me — you  are 
wasting  labor." 

She  turned  from  him  mournfully,  with  a  single  look,  and 
in  another  moment  was  gone  from  sight. 


^EAUCHAMPR. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

DOOMED. 

MB.  BARNABAS  and  Beauchampe  returned  from  their 
morning  ride  in  excellent  spirits ;  but  there  was  some  anx 
iety  and  inquiry  in  the  look  of  the  former  as  his  eye  sought 
that  of  his  confederate.  He  gathered  little  from  this  scru 
tiny,  however,  unless  it  were  the  perfect  success  of  the 
latter  in  the  prosecution  of  his  criminal  object.  The  face 
and  manner  of  Colonel  Sharpe  wore  all  the  composure  and 
placid  satisfaction  of  one  equally  at  peace  with  all  th6 
world  and  his  own  conscience.  His  headache  had  sub 
sided.  He  seemed  to  have  nothing  on  his  mind  to  desire 
or  to  regret. 

"  Lucky  dog !"  was  the  mental  exclamation  of  his  satel 
lite.  "  He  never  fails  in  anything  he  undertakes,  lie  doc? 
as  he  pleases  equally  with  men  and  women." 

Beauchampe  had  his  anxieties  also,  which  were  a  little 
increased  as  he  noted  a  greater  degree  of  sadness  on  his 
wife's  countenance  than  usual.  But  his  anxiety  had  no 
relation  whatever  to  the  real  cause  of  fear  —  to  the  real 
source  of  that  suffering  which  appeared  in  her  looks.  Not 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  evil  from  his  friend  Colonel  Sharpe 
had  ever  crossed  his  mind,  even  for  an  instant. 

Dinner  came  off,  and  Colonel  Sharpe  was  in  his  happiest 
vein.  His  jests  were  of  the  most  brilliant  order  ;  but,  un 
less  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Barnabas,  his  humcr  was  not  conta- 


DOOMED.  273 

gious.  Mrs.  Beauchampo  scarcely  secured  to  hear  what 
was  addressed  to  her;  and  Bcauchampe,  beholding  the 
increasing  depth  of  shade  on  his  wife's  countenance,  neces 
sarily  felt  a  corresponding  anxiety,  which  imparted  similar 
shadows  to  his  own. 

At  dinner,  Mr.  Barnabas  said  something  across  the  table 
to  his  companion,  in  reference  to  the  probable  time  of  de 
parture. 

"  What  say  you  —  shall  we  ride  to-morrow?" 

"  Why,  how's  your  nag  ?" 

"  Better  ;  not  absolutely  well,  but  able  to  go,  when  going 
homeward.'* 

"  You'  may  go,"  said  Sharpe,  abruptly  ;  "  but  I  shall  make 
a  week  of  it  with  Beauchampc.  The  country,  you  say,  is 
worth  seeing,  and  there  may  be  votes  to  be  won  by  showing 
one's  self.  I  see  no  reason  even  for  you  to  hurry ;  and  I 
dare  say  Beauchainpe's  hospitality  will  scarcely  complain 
of  our  trespass  for  two  days  longer." 

The  speaker  looked  to  Beauchampe,  who,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  professed  his  satisfaction  at  the  prospect  of  keeping 
his  friends.  The  eye  of  Sharpe  glanced  to  the  face  of  the 
lady.  A  dark-red  spot  was  upon  her  forehead.  She  met 
the  glance  of  her  enemy,  and  requited  it  with  one  of  deep 
significance;  then,  rising  from  the  table,  at  once  left  the 
apartment. 

The  things  were  removed,  and  Mr.  Barnabas,  counselled 
by  a  glance  from  his  companion,  proposed  to  Beauchampo 
to  explore  the  farm. 

"I  can't  bear  the  house  when  I  can  leave  it  —  that  id, 
when  I'm  in  the  country.  A  country-house  seems  to  me  an 
intolerable  bore.  Won't  you  go,  Sharpe?" 

But  the  person  addressed  had  already  disposed  himself 
in  the  rocking-chair,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  taking  a  nap. 
He  answered,  drowsily  : — 

"  No,  no,  Barnabas  ;  take  yourself  off!  I  would  enjoy  my 
siesta  merely.  With  you,  I  should  be  apt  to  sleep  soundly 


274  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Take  him  off,  Beauchampe,  and  suffer  me  to  make  myself 
at  home." 

<•  Oh,  certainly,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"I  do!  I  take  the  world  composedly  —  detest  sight 
seeing,  and  believe  in  Somnus.  This  habit  of  mine  keeps 
me  out  of  mischief,  into  which  Barnabas  is  for  ever  falling 
Away,  now.  my  good  boys,  and  enjoy  the  world  and  one 
another  !" 

The  roue  was  alone.  Ten  minutes  had  not  passed,  when 
Mrs.  Beauchampe  re-entered  the  apartment.  This  was  an 
event  which  Colonel  Sharpe  had  scarcely  anticipated.  He 
had  remained,  simply  to  be  in  the  way  of  what  he  would 
esteem  some  such  fortunate  chance ;  hoped  for  it;  and,  be 
lieving  that  the  lady  was  playing  only  a  very  natural  femi 
nine  game,  did  not  think  it  improbable  that  the  desired 
opportunity  would  be  afforded  him.  So  early  a  realization 
of  his  wishes  was  certainly  unexpected  —  not  undesired, 
however.  The  surprise  was  a  pleasurable  one,  and  he 
started  into  instant  vivacity  on  her  appearance,  rising  from 
his  seat  and  approaching  her  with  extended  hand  as  if  to 
conduct  her  to  it. 

"  Stay,  Colonel  Sharpe  !  I  come  but  for  a  moment." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  Margaret/1 

"  A  moment,  sir,  will  suffice  for  all  that  I  purpose.  You 
speak  of  remaining  here  till  the  close  of  the  week  ?  Now, 
hear  me  !  Your -horses  must  lie  saddled  after  breakfast  to 
morrow.  You  must  then  depart.  I  must  hear  you  express 
this  determination  when  we  meet  at  the  breakfast-table.  If 
you  do  not,  sir — on  the  word  of  a  woman  whom  you  have 
made  miserable,  and  still  keep  so,  I  shall  declare  to  Mr. 
Beauchampe  the  whole  truth  !'' 

"  What !  expel  mo  from  your  house,  Margaret  ?  No,  no  ! 
I  as  little  believe  you  can  do  this  as  do  the  other.  This, 
my  dear  girl,  is  the  merest  perversity !" 

He  offered  to  take  her  hand.     She  recoiled. 

"  Colonel   Sharpe,  your    unhappy   vanity   deceives    yon 


DOOMED.  276 

What  do  you  see  in  my  looks,  my  conduct,  to  justify  these 
doubts  of  what  I  say,  or  this  continued  presumption  on  your 
part  ?  Do  I  look  the  wanton  ?  do  I  look  the  pliant  damsel 
whose  grief  is  temporary  only  —  which  a  smile  of  deceit,  or 
a  cunning  word,  can  dissipate  in  a  moment  ?  Look  at  me 
well,  sir.  My  peace,  and  your  life,  depend  upon  the  wis 
dom  which  Heaven  at  this  moment  may  vouchsafe  you.  Oh, 
sir,  be  not  blind  !  See,  in  these  wobegonc  cheeks  and  eyes, 
nothing  but  the  misery,  approaching  to  despair,  which  my 
bosom  feels !  See,  and  be  warned  !  You  can  not  surely 
doubt  that  I  am  in  earnest.  For  the  equal  sake  of  your 
body  and  soul,  I  implore  you  to  believe  me !" 

Cassandra  never  looked  more  terribly  true  to  her  utter 
ance —  to  the  awful  predictions  which  her  lips  poured  forth 
—  but,  like  Cassandra,  Margaret  Cooper  was  fated  not  to 
be  believed.  The  unhappy  man,  blinded  by  that  flattering 
self-esteem  which  blinds  so  many,  was  insensible  to  her 
expostulations  —  to  the  intense  wo,  expressing  itself  in 
loclss  of  the  most  severe  majesty,  of  her  highly-expressive 
countenance. 

The  effect  of  her  intensity  of  feeling  was  to  elevate  the 
style  of  her  beauty,  and  this  was  something  against  the 
success  of  her  entreaty.  Vain  and  dishonorable  as  lie  was, 
Slxarpc  gazed  on  her  with  a  sincere  admiration.  Unhap 
pily,  he  was  not  one  to  venerate.  That  refining  agent  of 
moral  worship  was  wanting  to  his  heart:  and  in  its  place  a 
selfish  lust  after  she  pleasures  of  the  moment  was  the  only 
divinity  which  he  had  set  up. 

It  would  be  idle  to  repeat  his  answer  to  the  imploring 
prayer  of  the  half-distracted  woman.  He  had  as  little 
generosity  as  veneration  :  he  could  not  forbear.  His  mind 
had  become  indexible,  from  the  too  frequent  contemplation 
of  itr,  lusts  ;  and  what  he  said  was  simply  what  might  have 
been  said  by  any  callous,  clever  man,  who,  in  the  prosecu 
tion  of  a  selfish  purpose,  regards  nothing  but  the  end  in 
view.  He  answered  with  pleasantry  that  ve  which  was 


276  BEAUCHAMPE. 

so  much  more  expressively  shown  in  her  looks  than  in  her 
utterance.  Pleasantry  at  such  a  moment !  —  pleasantry 
addressed  to  that  painfully-excited  imagination,  whose  now- 
familiar  images  were  of  death,  and  despair,  and  blood  !  She 
answered  him  by  clasping  her  hands  together. 

"  We  are  doomed !''  she  exclaimed,  while  a  groan  forced 
its  way,  at  the  close  of  her  sentence,  as  if  from  the  very 
bottom  of  her  heart. 

"Doomed,  indeed,  Margaret!  How  very  idle,  unless 
you  doom  us !" 

"  And  I  do  !  You  are  doomed,  and  doomed  by  me,  Al 
fred  Stevens,  unless  you  leave  this  house  to-morrow !" 

"  Be  sure  I  shall  do  no  such  thing !" 

"  Your  blood  be  upon  your  own  head  !  I  have  warned 
you,  counselled  you,  implored  you  —  I  can  do  no  more!" 

"  Yes,  Margaret,  you  can  persuade  me,  beguile  rne,  riub 
due  rne  —  make  me  your  captive,  slave,  worshipper,  every 
thing — as  you  have  done  before  —  by  only  lovine  MS  as 
you  did  then.  Be  not  foolish  and  perverse.  Come  to  me  : 
let  us  renew  those  happy  hours  that  we  knew  in  Charlo- 
montj  when  you  had  none  of  these  gloomy  notions  to  affright 
others  and  to  vex  yourself  with !" 

"  Fool !  fool !  Blind  and  vain  !  Wita  sense  neither  to 
see  nor  to  hear  !  —  Alfred  Stevens,  there  is  yet  time  !  But 
the  hours  are  numbered.  God  be  merciful,  so  that  they  be 
not  yours !  We  meet  at  the  table  to-morrow  morning  for 
the  last  time." 

"  Stay,  Margaret !"  he  exclaimed,  seeing  her  about  to 
leave  the  room. 

"  To-morrow  morning  for  the  last  time !"  she  repeated, 
as  she  disappeared  from  sight. 

"Devilish  strange!  But  they  are  all  so — perverse  as 
the  devil  himself!  There  is  nothing  to  be  done  here  by 
assault.  We  must  have  time,  and  make  our  approaches 
with  more  caution.  My  desertion  sticks  in  her  gorge.  I 
must  mollify  her  on  that  score.  Work  slowly,  but  surely 


DOOMED.  277 

I  have  been  too  bold  —  too  confident.  I  did  not  make  suf 
ficient  allowances  for  her  pride,  which  is  diabolically  strong. 
I  must  ply  her  with  the  sedatives  first.  But  one  would 
have  thought  that  she  had  sufficient  experience  to  have 
taken  the  thing  more  coolly.  As  for  her  blabbing  to  Beau- 
champe,  that's  all  in  my  eye  !  No,  no,  you  can  not  terrify 
me  by  such  a  threat.  I  am  too  old  a  stager  for  that :  nay, 
indeed,  how  much  of  your  wish  to  drive  me  off  arises  from 
your  dread  that  /  shall  blab  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  but  you  too 
shall  be  safe  from  that.  My  policy  is  c  mum,'  like  your 
own.  To  be  frightened  off  by  such  a  threat  would  prove  a 
man  as  sorry  a  fool  as  coward.  We  shaVt  go  to-morrow, 
fair  Mistress  Margaret,  doom  or  no  doom !'' 

Such  were  the  muttered  meditations  of  Colonel  Sharpe 
after  Mrs.  Beauchampe  had  left  him.  Perhaps  they  were 
such  as  would  be  natural  to  most  men  of  the  same  charac 
ter.  His  estimate  of  the  woman,  also,  was  no  doubt  a  very 
just  estimate  of  the  ordinary  woman  of  the  world,  placed 
in  similar  circumstances,  after  having  committed  the  same 
monstrous  and  scarcely  remediable  lapse  from  virtue  and 
place. 

But  we  have  shown  that  Margaret  Cooper  was  no  ordi 
nary  woman!  He  knew  that,  himself;  but  he  did  not  be 
lieve  her  equal  to  the  purpose  which  she  threatened,  nor 
did  he  believe  her  when  she  informed  him  of  the  magnani 
mous  course  which  she  had  already  pursued  in  relation  to 
Beaucliampe.  Could  he  have  believed  that,  indeed  ? 

But  it  was  not  meant  that  he  should  believe.  The  des 
tiny  that  shapes  our  ends  was  not  to  be  diverted  in  his  case. 
ds  his  victim  had  declared,  with  solemn  emphasis,  on  leav 
ing  him,  he  was,  indeed,  doomed  — doomed  —  doomed! 


278  BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

BITTER   TEARS  -OF   PREPARATION. 

WE  pass,  with  hurried  progress,  over  the  proceedings  of 
that  night.  The  reader  will  please  believe  that  Colonel 
Sharpe  was,  as  usual,  happy  in  his  dialogue,  and  fluent  in 
his  humor.  Indeed,  by  that  strange  contradiction  in  the 
work  of  destiny,  which  sometimes  so  arranges  it  that  death 
does  the  work  of  tragedy  in  the  very  midst  of  the  marriage 
merriment,  the  spirits  of  the  doomed  man  were  never  more 
elastic  and  excitable  than  on  that  very  night.  He  and 
Barnabas  kept  his  host,  till  a  late  hour,  from  his  couch. 
The  sounds  of  their  laughter  penetrated  the  upper  apart 
ments,  and  smote  mournfully  upon  the  ears  of  the  unhappy 
wife,  to  whom  all  sounds,  at  that  moment,  came  laden  with 
the  weight  of  wo.  One  monotonous  voice  rang  through  her 
senses  and  the  house,  as  in  the  case  of  Macbeth,  and  cried, 
u  Sleep  no  more!"  Such,  at  least,  was  the  effect  of  the 
cry  upon  her.  Precious  little  had  been  her  sleep,  in  that 
house,  from  the  moment  that  bad  man  entered  it.  Was  she 
ever  to  sleep  again  ?  She  herself  believed  not. 

The  guests  at  length  retired  to  their  chamber,  and  Beau 
chainpc  sought  his.  At  his  approach,  his  wife  rose  from 
her  knees.  Poor,  striving,  struggling,  hopeless  heart!  she 
had  been  laboring  to  beat  down  thought,  and  to  wrestle 
with  prayer.  But  thought  mingled  with  prayer,  and  ob 
tained  the  mastery.  Such  thoughts,  too  —  such  thoughts 
\>f  the  terrible  necessity  before  her ! 


E.'JIKJi    TEUfcj    OF    PREPARATION.  279. 

Oh,  bow  criminal  was  the  selfish  denial  of  that  man! 
Life  had  become  sweet  and  precious.  Her  husband  had 
grown  dear  to  her  in  proportion  as  he  convinced  her  that 
she  was  dear  to  him.  Permitted  to  remain  in  their  obscu 
rity,  life  might  still  be  retained,  and  would  continue,  with 
length  of  days,  to  become  more  and  more  precious.  But 
the  destroyer  was  there,  unwilling  to  spare  —  unwilling  to 
forego  the  ravages  ho  had  ocgun.  Not  to  tell  her  husband 
the  whole  truth  —  to  li^ien  to  the  criminal  any  longer  with 
out  denouncing  him —  would,  not  only  be  to  encourage  him 
in  his  crime,  but  to  partake  of  it.  If  he  remained  another 
day,  she  was  bound  by  duty,  and  sworn  before  the  altar,  to 
declare  the  truth  ;  and  the  truth,  once  told,  was  only  an 
other  name  for  utter  desolation  —  blood  upon  the  hands, 
deatli  upon  the  soul !  With  such  thoughts,  prayer  was  not 
possible.  But  she  had  striven  in  prayer,  and  that  was 
something.  Nay,  it  was  something  gained,  even  to  think 
in  the  position  of  humility  —  upon  her  knees. 

She  rose,  when  she  heard  her  husband  approach  —  took 
a  book,  and  seating  herself  beside  the  toilet,  prepared  to 
read.  She  composed  her  countenance,  with  a  very  decided 
effort  of  will,  so  as  to  disperse  some  of  the  storm-clouds 
which  had  been  hanging  over  it.  Her  policy  was,  at  pres 
ent,  not  to  alarm  her  husband's  suspicions,  if  possible,  in 
relation  to  her  guests.  It  might  be  that  Sharpe  would 
grow  wiser  with  the  passage  of  the  night.  Sleep,  and 
quiet,  and  reflection,  might  work  beneficial  results;  and  if 
he  would  only  depart  with  the  morning,  she  trusted  to  time 
and  to  her  own  influence  over  Beauchampe,  to  break  off  the 
intimacy  between  the  parties  without  revealing  the  fatal 
truth. 

"What!  not  abed,  Anna  ?"  said  Beauchampe.  "It  is 
late  ;  do  yon  know  the  hour  !  It  is  nigh  one  !" 

"  Indeed,  but  I  am  not  sleepy." 

"  I  am  ;  what  with  riding  and  rambling  with  Barnabas  I 
am  completely  knocked  up  Besides,  he  is  such  a  dull  fel 


280  HEAOCHAMPt:. 

low.  Now  Shaipe  has  wit,  humor,  and  other  resources, 
which  make  a  man  forgetful  of  the  journey  and  the  progress 
of  time." 

"  Has  Colonel  Sharpe  said  anything  about  going?"  de 
manded  the  wife  with  some  abruptness. 

«  Yes—" 

"  Ah  !" — with  some  eagerness  —  "  when  does  he  go  ?" 

"  At  the  close  of  the  week.  He  is  disposed  to  see  some 
thing  of  the  neighborhood." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  scarcely  suppressing  the  deep 
sigh  which  struggled  for  utterance ;  and  once  more  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  book.  It  need  not  be  said  that  she  read 
nothing. 

"  Come  to  bed,  dearest,"  said  Beauchampe  tenderly  ;  "  you 
hurt  your  eyes  by  night  reading.  They  have  been  looking 
red  all  day." 

She  promised  him,  and,  overcome  with  fatigue,  the  hus 
band  soon  slept,  but  the  wife  did  not  rise.  For  more  than 
two  hours  she  sat,  the  book  still  in  her  hands ;  but  her 
eyes  were  unconscious  of  its  pages,  her  thoughts  were  not 
in  that  volume.  She  thought  only  of  that  coming  morrow, 
and  the  duties  and  dangers  which  its  coining  would  involve. 
She  was  seeking  to  steel  her  mind  with  the  proper  resolu 
tion,  and  this  was  no  easy  effort. 

Imagine  the  task  before  her  —  and  the  difficulty  in  the 
way  of  acquiring  the  proper  hardihood  will  easily  be  under 
stood.  Imagine  yourself  preparing  for  the  doom  which  is 
to  follow  in  twelve  hours ;  and  conjecture,  if  you  can,  the 
sort  of  meditations  which  will  come  to  you  in  that  dreary 
but  short  interval  of  time.  Suppose  yourself  in  health,  too 
-  -young,  beautiful,  highly  endowed,  intensely  ambitious, 
with  the  prospect — if  those  twelve  hours  can  be  passed  in 
safety  —  of  love,  long  life,  happiness,  and  possibly,  "  troops 
of  friends"  all  before  you,  smiling,  beckoning,  entreating 
in  the  sunny  distance  !  Imagine  all  this  in  the  case  of  thai 
proud,  uobje-heartcd,  most  lovely,  highly  intellectual,  but 


BITTER  TEAKS  OP   PREPARATION.  U51 

wo-environed  woman,  and  you  will  not  wonder  that  she  did 
not  sleep.  Still  less  will  it  be  your  wonder  that  she  could 
not  pray.  Life  and  hope  were  too  strong  for  sufficient  hu 
mility.  The  spirit  and  the  energy  of  her  heart  were  not  yet 
sufficiently  subdued. 

Dreary  was  the  dismal  watch  she  kept  —  still  in  the  one 
position.  At  length  her  husband  moved  and  murmured  in 
his  sleep.  In  his  sleep  he  called  her  name,  and  coupled 
with  it  an  endearing  epithet.  Then  the  tide  flowed.  The 
proper  chords  of  human  feeling  were  stricken  in  her  heart. 
The  rock  gushed.  It  was  stubborn  no  longer.  But  the 
waters  were  bitter,  though  the  relief  was  sweet.  Bitter 
were  the  tears  she  wept,  but  they  were  tears,  human  tears ; 
and  like  the  big  drops  that  relieve  the  heat  of  the  sky  and 
disperse  its  unbreathing  vapors,  they  took  some  of  the 
mountain  pressure  from  her  heart,  and  left  her  free  to 
breathe,  and  hope,  and  pray. 

She  rose  and  stepped  lightly  beside  the  bed  where  Bcau- 
chainpe  slept.  She  hung  over  him.  Still  he  murmured  in 
his  sleep.  Still  he  spoke  her  name,  and  still  his  words 
were  those  of  tenderness  and  love.  Mentally  she  prayed 
above  him,  while  the  big  drops  fell  from  her  eyes  upon  the 
pillow.  One  sentence  alone  became  audible  in  her  prayer 
—  that  sentence  of  agonizing  apostrophe,  spoken  by  the 
Savior  in  his  prescience*  of  the  dreadful  hour  of  trial  which 
was  to  come  :  "  If  them  be  willing,  Father,  let  this  cup  pass 
by  me  !" 

She  had  no  other  prayer,  and  in  this  vain  and  useless 
repetition  of  the  undirected  thoughts,  she  passed  a  sad  and 
comfortless  night.  But  she  had  been  gaining  strength.  A 
stern  and  unfaltering  spirit  —  it  matters  not  whence  derived 
—  came  to  her  aid,  and  with  the  return  of  sunrise  she  arose, 
with  a  solemn  composure  of  soul,  prepared,  however  gloom 
ily,  to  go  forward  in  her  terrible  duties. 


282  BEAUCHAMT*. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE   BOLT   SPED. 

BEAUCHAMPE  rose  refreshed  and  more  cheerful  than  usual. 
The  plans  for  the  day,  which  had  been  discussed  by  him 
self  and  friends  the  previous  night,  together  with  the  lively 
dialogue  which  had  made  them  heedless  of  the  progress  of 
the  hours,  were  recalled  to  his  memory,  and  he  rose  with 
an  unwonted  spirit  of  elasticity  and  humor. 

But  the  lively  glance  of  his  eye  met  no  answering  pleas- - 
ure  in  that  of  his  wife.  She  was  up  before  him.  He  did 
not  dream  that  she  had  not  slept  —  that  for  half  the  night 
she  had  hung  above  his  sleep  engaged  in  mental  prayer  that 
such  slumbers  might  still  be  spared  to  him,  even  if  the 
dreary  doom  of  such  a  watch  was  still  allotted  to  her.  lie 
gently  reproached  her  for  the  settled  sadness  in  her  looks, 
and  she  replied  only  by  a  sigh.  He  did  not  notice  the  in 
tense  gleams  which,  at  moments,  issued  from  her  eyes,  or 
lie  .might  have  guessed  that  some  terrible  resolution  was 
busy  working  at  the  fiery  forge  within  her  brain.  Could  he 
guess  the  sort  of  manufacture  going  on  in  that  dangerous 
workshop  ?  But  he  did  not. 

The  party  was  assembled  at  the  breakfasMable ;  and,  as 
if  with  a  particular  design  to  apprize  Mrs.  Beauchampe,  that 
her  warnings  were  not  heeded,  Colonel  Sharpe  dwelt  with 
great  deliberation  upon  the  host  modes  before  them  of  con 
suming  the  rest  of  the  \vetk  with  profit. 


THE    BOLT   SPED.  283 

"  What  say  you,  Beauchampe,  to  a  morning  at  your 
friend  Tiernan's  —  he  will  give  us  arouse,  I'm  thinking; 
the  next  day  with  Coalter,  and  Saturday,  what  ho!  for  an 
elk-hunt !  at  all  events,  Barnabas  must  go  to  Coalter's — he's 
a  client  of  his,  arid  will  never  forgive  the  omission ;  and  it 
is  no  less  important  that  you  should  give  him  the  elk-hunt 
also  ;  he  has  a  taste  for  hard  riding,  and  it  will  do  him 
good.  He's  getting  stoutish,  and  a  good  shaking  will  keep 
his  bulk  within  proper  bounds.  Certainly,  he  must  have  an 
elk-hunt." 

''  A  like  reason  will  make  it  necessary  that  you  should 
chare' it  also,  colonel,"  said  Beauchampe.  "You  partake, 
in  similar  degree,  of  the  infirmity  of  flesh  which  troubles 
Mr.  Barnabas." 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  I  am  no  candidate  for  the  red-hat,  which  is 
the  case  with  Bamaba3>  and  which  the  conclave  will  reli- 
gj.ously  refuse  to  a  man  with  a  corporation." 

"  But  you  are  after  the  seat  of  attorney-general,"  said 
Mr.  .Barnabas,  with  the  placable  smile  of  dullness. 

u  Granted  ;  and  for  such  an  office  a  good  corporation  may 
be  considered  an  essential,  rather  than  anything  else.  It 
confers  dignity,  Hal.  Now,  the  red-hatted  gentry  of  tho 
club  are  not  expected  to  be  dignified.  The  humor  of  the 
thing  forbids  it ;  and  as  a  candidate  for  that  communion, 
it  is  necessary  that  you  should  live  on  soup  maigre,  and 
'  seek  the  chase  with  hawk  and  hound,'  as  Earl  Percy  did. 
Besides,  Beauchampe,  he  has  a  passion  for  it." 

"  I  a  passion  for  it  ?"  said  Barnabas. 

';' Yes,  to  be  sure  —  what  were  all  those  stories  yon  used 
to  tsll  us  of  hunting  in  Tennessee  ;  stories  that  used  to  set  our 
hair  on  end  at  your  hairbreadth  escapes.  Either  we  must 
suppose  you  to  have  grown  suddenly  old  and  timid,  or  we 
must  suppose,  that,  in  telling  those  stories  of  your  prowess, 
you  were  amusing  us  with  some  pleasant  fictions.  That's 
a  dilemma  for  you,  Barnabas,  if  you  disclaim  a  passion  for 
jm  elk-huut  now." 


284  BEAUCHAMPE. 

'*  No  !  by  Jupiter,  I  told  you  nothing  but  the  truth,"  said 
Barnabas,  solemnly. 

"  \  believe  it,"  said  Sharpe,  with  equal  solemnity,  "  1 
oelicvc  it,  and  believe  that  the-passion  continues." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  I  can't  altogether  deny  that  it 
does,  but  it  lias  been  somewhat  cooled  by  other  pursuit? 
and  associations." 

"  It  must  be  warmed  again,"  responded  Sharpe  ;  "  rcincm- 
oer,  Beauchampc,  be  sure  to  make  up  a  party  for  Saturday." 

"  We  include  you  in  it?''  asked  Beauchampe. 

"  Ay,  ay  —  if  I  happen  to  be  l  i'  the  vein.'  But,  you 
know,  like  Corporal  Nym,rm  a  person  of  humors.  I  may 
not  have  the  fit  upon  me,  or  I  may  have  some  other  nt ;  and 
may  prefer  remaining  at  home  to  read  poetiy  with  our  fair 
hostess." 

The  speaker  glanced  significantly  at  Mrs.  Beauchampe 
as  he  said  these  words.  Their  eyes  encountered.  Hers 
wore  an  expression  of  the  soberest  sadness.  As  if  pro 
voked  by  the  speech  and  the  glance,  she  said,  in  the  most 
deliberate  language,  while  her  look  was  full  of  the  most 
rebukeful  and  warning  expression:— 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  leave  this  morning  for  Frank 
fort,  Colonel  Sharpe.  I  derived  that  impression  somehow 
from  something  that  was  said  last  evening." 

Beauchampe  turned  full  upon  his  wife  with  a**stern  look 
of  equal  astonishment  and  inquiry.  Mr.  Barnabas  was 
aghast ;  and  Colonel  Sharpe  himself  for  a  moment  lost  his 
equilibrium,  and  was  speechless,  while  his  eyes  looked  the 
incertitude  which  he  felt.  He  was  the  first,  however,  to 
recover ;  and,  with  a  sort  of  legal  dexterity,  assuming  as 
really  having  been  his  own  the  determination  which  she  had 
suggested  as  being  rrade  by  him,  he  replied  : — 

"  True,  my  dear  madam,  that  was  my  purpose  yesterday  ; 
but  the  kind  entreaties  of  our  host,  ani  the  pleasant  project? 
which  we  discussed  last  night,  peiS'iaded  me  to  yield  to  the 
temptation,  and  to  otay  till  Sunday." 


THE    BOLT    SPED.  285 

The  speaker  bowed  politely,  and  returned  the  severe 
glance  of  the  lady  with  a  look  of  mingled  conciliation  and 
doubt.  For  the  first  time,  he  began  to  feel  apprehensive 
that  lie  had  mistaken  her,  and  perhaps  himself.  She  was  a 
woman  of  prodigious  strength  of  soul,  indomitable  resolu 
tion,  and  the  courage  of  a  gigantic  man.  Never  did  words 
proceed  more  deliberately,  more  evenly,  from  human  lips, 
than  did  the  reply  from  hers : — 

"  That  can  not  be,  Colonel  Sharpe.  It  is  necessary  that 
you  should  keep  your  first  resolution.  Mr.  Beauchampe 
can  no  longer  accommodate  you  in  his  dwelling." 

"  How,  Mrs.  Beauchampe !"  exclaimed  the  husband, 
starting  to  his  feet,  and  confronting  her.  She  had  risen 
while  speaking,  and  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room.  She 
looked  on  him  with  a  countenance  mournful  and  humble — 
very  different  from  that  which  she  wore  in  addressing  the 
other. 

"  Speak,  Anna — say,  Mrs.  Beauchampe  !"  exclaimed  the 
husband,  "what  does  this  mean?  This  to  my  guests — to 
my  friend !" 

"  He  is  not  your  friend,  Beauchampe — nor  mine!  But 
let  me  pass  —  I  can  not  speak  here !" 

She  left  the  room,  and  Beauchampe,  with  a  momentary 
glance  at  Sharpe,  full  of  bewilderment,  hurried  after  his 
wife. 

"  What's  this,  Sharpe,  in  the  devil's  name  ?"  demanded 
Barnabas  in  consternation. 

"  The  devil  himself,  Barnabas  !"  said  Sharpe.  "  I'm  afraid 
the  Jezebel  means  to  blow  me,  and  tell  everything !" 

"  But  you  told  me  last  night  that  all  was  well  and  going 
right."  ' 

"  So  I  thought !  I  fear  I  was  mistaken !  At  all  events, 
I  must  prepare  for  the  worst.  Have  you  any  weapons 
about  you  ?" 

"  My  dirk !" 

"  Give  it  me :  my  pistols  are  in  the  saddle-bags." 


286  BEAUCHAMPE 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  You  are  in  no  danger.  Give  me  the  dirk,  and  hurry 
out  and  have  our  horses  ready.  D — n  the  woman  !  —  who 
could  have  believed  it !  " 

"  Ah,  you're  always  so  sanguine  !"  began  Barnabas  ;  but 
the  other  interrupted  him  : — 

"  Pshaw  !  this  is  no  time  for  lecturing.  Your  wisdom  is 
eleventh-hour  wisdom  !  It  is  too  late  here.  Hurry,  and 
prepare  yourself  and  the  horses,  while  I  go  to  the  room  and 
get  the  saddle-bags  ready.  If  I  am  blown,  my  start  can 
not  be  too  sudden." 

Barnabas,  always  pliant,  disappeared  instantly ;  and 
Sharpe,  concealing  the  dirk  in  his  bosom,  with  the  handle 
convenient  to  his  clutch,  found  himself  unpleasantly  alone. 

"  Who  the  d — 1  could  have  thought  it  ?  What  a  woman  ! 
But  it  may  not  be  as  bad  as  I  fear.  She  may  invent  some 
thing  to  answer  the  purpose  of  getting  me  off.  She  cer 
tainly  can  not  tell  the  whole.  No,  no !  that  would  be  to 
suppose  her  mad.  And  mad  she  may  be  :  I  had  not  thought 
of  that !  Now,  I  think  of  it,  she  looks  cursedly  like  an 
insane  woman.  That  wild,  fierce  gleam  of  her  eye  —  those 
accents  —  and,  indeed,  everything  since  I  have  been  here! 
Certainly,  had  she  not  been  mad,  it  must  have  been  as  I 
wished.  I  could  not  have  been  deceived — never  was  de 
ceived  yet — by  a  sane  woman  !  It  must  be  so  ;  and,  if  so, 
it  is  possible  that  she  may  blurt  out  the  whole.  I  must  be 
prepared.  Beauchampe's  as  fierce  as  a  vulture  when  roused. 
I've  seen  that  in  him  before.  I  must  get  my  pistols  — 
though,  in  going  for  them,  I  may  meet  him  on  the  stairs. 
Well,  if  I  do,  I  am  armed !  He  is  scarcely  more  powerful 
than  myself.  Yet  I  would  not  willingly  have  him  grapple 
with  me,  if  only  because  he  is  her  husband.  The  very 
thought  of  her  makes  me  half  a  coward !  And  yet  I  must 
be  prepared.  It  must  be  done  !" 

Such  were  his  reflections.  lie  advanced  to  the  entrance. 
The  footsteps  of  Beauchninpe  wore  heard  rapidly  striding 


THE    BOLT   SPED.  287 

across  the  chamber  overhead.  The  crimL  ^  recoiled  as  he 
heard  them.  A  tremor  shot  through  his  limbs.  He  clutched 
the  dagger  in  his  bosom,  set  his  teeth  firmly,  and  waited  for 
a  moment  at  the  entrance. 

The  sounds  subsided  above.  Tie  thrust  his  head  through 
the  doorway,  into  the  passage,  and  leaned  forward  in  the 
act  of  listening.  The  renewed  silence  which  now  prevailed 
in  the  house  gave  him  fresh  courage.  He  darted  up  the 
steps,  sought  his  chamber,  and  with  eager,  trembling  hands 
caught  up  and  examined  his  pistols.  Both  were  loaded, 
and  he  thrust  them  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat;  then  seiz 
ing  his  own  and  the  saddle-bags  of  his  companion,  he  darted 
out  of  the  chamber,  and  down  the  stairs,  with  footsteps 
equally  light  and  rapid. 

Once  more  in  the  hall,  and  well  armed,  he  was  more 
composed,  but  as  little  prepared,  morally,  for  events  as 
before.  There  was  a  heavy  fear  upon  his  spirit.  The  con 
sciousness  of  guilt  is  a  terrible  queller  of  one's  manhood. 
He  waited  impatiently  for  the  return  of  Barnabas.  At 
such  a  moment,  even  the  presence  of  one  whocc  Ha  esti 
mated  rather  humbly,  and  witli  some  feeling::  of  contempt, 
was  grateful  to  his  enfeebled  spirit ;  and  the  appearance  of 
the  horses  at  the  door,  and  the  return  of  his  friend,  had 
the  etlect  of  re-enJiTening  him  to  a  degree  which  made  him 
blush  lor  the  feeling  of  apprehension  which  he  had  so  lately 
entertained. 

"All's  ready!  —  will  you  ride?"  demanded  Barnabas, 
picking  up  his  saddle-bags.  The  worthy  coadjutor  was  by 
no  means  audacious  in  his  courage.  Sharpe  hesitated. 

"  It  may  be  only  a  false  alarm,  after  all,"  said  he ;  "  wo 
had  better  wait  and  see." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  former.  "  There  was  no  mista 
king  the  words,  and  as  little  the  looks.  She's  a  very  reso 
lute  woman." 

Colonel  Sharpe  was  governed  by  the  anxieties  of  guilt 
as  well  as  its  fears.  The  painful  desire  to  hear  and 


288  BEAUCHAMPE. 

to  what  extent  the  revelations  of  the  wife  had  gone-  a 
half  confidence  that  all  would  not  be  told  —  that  some  loop 
hole  would  be  left  for  retreat — and  the  further  conviction 
that,  at  all  events,  whatever  was  the  nature  of  her  story  to 
her  husband,  it  was  quite  as  well  that  he  should  know  it  at 
one  moment  as  another  —  encouraged  him  to  linger;  and 
tli is  resolve,  with  the  force  of  an  habitual  will,  he  impressed 
upon  his  reluctant  companion. 

Leaving  them  to  their  suspense  below,  let  us  join  the 
kaeband  and  wife  above  stairs. 


EXPLANATION  --THE  OATH  RENEWED.        239 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

EXPLANATION  —  THE   OATH    RENEWED. 

"Take  the  dagger  — 

The  victim  waits  !     Thy  honor  and  my  safety 
Demand  me  stroke  !" —  Old  Play. 

"!N  the  name  of  God,  Mrs.  Beauchampe!"  —  such  was 
the  address  of  her  husband  as  he  joined  her  in  their  cham 
ber — "  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?" 

She  silently  took  from  the  toilet  a  pair  of  pistols,  and 
offered  them  to  him. 

"  What  mean  you  by  these — by  this  treatment  of  my 
friends  ?" 

"  Your  friends  are  villains  !  Colonel  Sharpe  and  Alfred 
Stevens  are  the  same  person !" 

"  Impossible  !"  he  replied,  recoiling-  with  horror  from  the 
proffered  weapons. 

"  True  as  gospel,  Beauchampe  !" 

"  True  ?" 

"True!  before  Heaven,  I  speak  the  truth,  my  husband! 
—  a  dreadful,  terrible  truth,  which  I  would  riot  speak  were 
it  possible  not  to  do  so  !" 

"  And  why  has  not  this  been  told  me  before  ?  Why  has 
he  been  suffered  to  remain  in  your  presence — nay,  to  be 
alone  with  you  for  hours  —  since  his  coming  ?  Did  you 
know  him  from  the  first  to  be  the  same  man  ?" 

"From  the  first!" 

"  Explain,  then  !  —  for  God's  sake,  explain  !     You  blind 


290  BEAUCFIAMPK, 

me  —you  stun  me  !  I  am  utterly  unable  to  see  this  thing ! 
How,  if  you  knew  him  from  the  first,  suffer  for  a  moment 
the  contagion  of  his  presence  ?" 

"  This  I  can  easily  answer  you,  my  husband.  Bear  with 
me  patiently  while  I  do  so  !  I  will  lay  bare  to  you  my 
whole  soul,  and  show  you  by  what  motives  of  forbearance 
I  was  governed,  until  driven  to  the  course  I  have  pursued 
by  the  bold  insolence  of  this  uncompromising  villain." 

She  paused  —  pressed  her  head  with  her  hands  as  if  to 
subdue  the  tumult  which  was  striving  within ;  then,  with 
an  effort  which  seemed  to  demand  her  greatest  energies, 
she  proceeded  with  her  speech. 

She  entered  into  an  explanation  of  that  change  in  her 
feelings  and  desires  which  had  been  consequent  upon  her 
marriage.  She  acknowledged  the  force  of  those  new  do 
mestic  ties  which  she  had  formed,  in  making  her  unwilling 
that  any  event  should  take  place  which  should  commit  her 
self  or  husband  in  the  eyes  of  the  community,  and  bring 
about  a  disruption  of  those  ties,  or  a  further  development 
of  her  story  —  which  would  be  certain  to  follow,  in  the 
event  of  an  issue  between  her  husband  and  her  seducer. 
With  this  change  in  her  mood,  prior  to  the  appearance  of 
this  person  and  his  identification  with  Colonel  Sharpe,  she 
had  prayed  that  he  mi.clit  never  reappear;  and  when  he 
did  —  when  he  became  the  guest  of  her  husband,  and  was 
regarded  as  his  friend  —  it  was  her  hope  that  a  souse  of 
his  danger  would  have  prompted  him  to  make  his  visit 
short,  and  prevent  him  from  again  renewing  it.  Her  own 
deportment  was  meant  to  be  such  as  should  produce  this 
determination  in  hi?  breast.  But  when  this  failed  of  its 
effect;  when,  in  despite  of  warning,  in  defiance  of  danger, 
in  the  face  of  hospitality  and  friendship,  the  villain  pre 
sumed  to  renew  his  loathsome  overtures  of  guilt ;  when  no 
hope  remained  that  lie  would  forbear ;  when  it  was  seen 
that  he  was  without  generosity,  and  that  neither  the  rebuke 
of  her  scorn  nor  the  warnings  of  her  anger  could  repel  his 


EXPLANATION  —  THi<J    OATH    RENEWED. 

insolent  advances  —  then  it  was  that  she  felt  compelled  to 
speak  —  then,  and  not  before  ! 

She  had  deferred  this  necessity  to  the  last  moment ;  she 
had  been  purposely  slow.  She  had  given  the  seducer  every 
opportunity  to  withdraw  in  safety,  and  made  the  condition 
of  his  future  security  easy,  by  asking  only  that  he  would 
never  seek  or  see  her  again  ! 

She  had  striven  in  vain  ;  and,  failing  to  find  the  immunity 
she  sought  from  her  own  strength  and  firmness,  it  was  no 
longer  possible  to  evade  the  necessity  which  forced  her  to 
seek  it  in  the  protection  of  her  husband.  It  was  now  neces 
sary  that  lie  should  comply  with  his  oath,  and  for  this 
reason  she  had  placed  the  weapons  of  death  in  his  hands. 
Henceforth,  the  struggle  was  his  alone.  Of  the  sort  of 
duty  to  be  done,  no  doubt  could  exist  in  either  mind ! 

Such  was  the  narrative  which,  with  the  coherence  not 
only  of  a  sane  but  a  strong  mind,  and  a  will  that  no  pain 
of  body  and  pang  of  soul  could  overcome,  she  poured  into 
the  ears  of  her  husband.  We  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
the  agony,  the  utter  recoil  and  shrinking  of  soul,  with  which 
he  heard  it.  There  is  a  point  to  which  human  passion 
sometimes  arrives  when  all  language  fails  of  description  ; 
as,  in  a  condition  of  physical  suffering,  the  intensity  of  the 
pain  is  providentially  relieved  by  utter  unconsciousness  and 
stupor.  But,  such  was  the  surprise  with  which  Beauchampe 
received  the  information  of  that  identity  between  Alfred 
Stevens  and  his  friend  —  his  friend!  —  that  the  impression 
which  followed  from  what  remained  of  his  wife's  narrative 
was  comparatively  slight.  You  might  trace  the  accumula 
tion  of  pang  upon  pang,  in  his  heart,  as  the  story  went  on, 
by  a  slight  convulsive  movement  of  the  lip  —  but  the  eye 
did  not  seem  to  speak.  It  was  fixed  and  glassy,  and  so 
vacant,  that  its  expression  might  have  occasioned  some  ap 
prehension  in  the  mind  of  the  wife,  had  her  own  intcuflity 
of  suffering  —  however  kept  down  — not  been  of  so  blinding 
and  darkening  a  character. 


292  BEAUCHAMPE. 

When  she  had  ended,  he  grasped  the  pistols,  and  hurried 
to  the  entrance,  but  as  suddenly  returned.  He  laid  the 
weapons  down  upon  the  toilet. 

"No!"  he  exclaimed  — "  not  here!  It  must  not  be  in 
this  house.  He  has  eaten  at  our  board — he  is  beneath  our 
roof.  This  threshold  must  not  be  stained  with  the  blood 
of  the  guest !" 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke  these  words.  But  she  did 
not  note  his  glance.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  ;  her  hands  were 
clasped ;  she  did  not  seem  to  note  his  presence,  and  her 
head  was  bent  forward  as  if  she  listened.  A  moment  was 
passed  in  this  manner,  when,  as  he  still  looked,  she  turned 
suddenly  and  seemed  only  then  to  behold  him. 

"  You  are  here  !"  she  said  ;  "  where  are  the  pistols  ?" 

He  did  not  answer ;  but,  following  the  direction  of  his 
eye,  she  saw  them  on  the  toilet,  and,  striding  toward  them, 
fiercely  and  rapidly  she  caught  them  up  from  the  place 
where  they  lay. 

"  What  would  you,  Anna?"  he  asked,  seizing  her  wrists. 

"  The  wrong  is  mine  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  My  hand  shall 
avenge  it.  It  is  sworn  to  it.  I  am  prepared  for  it.  TV^hy 
should  it  be  put  upon  another  ?" 

"  No!"  he  cried  —  while  his  brow  gathered  into  a  cloud 
of  wrinkles  — "  no,  woman!  You  are  mine,  and  your 
ivrongs  are  mine  —  mine  only  !  /will  avenge  them  :  but  I 
must  avenge  them  as  I  think  right  —  after  my  own  fashion 
—  in  my  own  time.  Fear  not  that  I  will.  Believe  that  1 
am  a  man,  with  the  feelings  and  the  resolution  of  a  man, 
and  do  not  doubt  that  I  will  execute  my  oath  —  ay,  even 
were  it  no  oath  —  to  the  uttermost  letter  of  the  obligation ! 
Give  me  the  weapons !" 

She  yielded  them.  Her  whole  manner  was  subdued  — 
her  looks — her  words. 

CM3  Beauchampe,  would  that  I  could  spare  you  this !" 

"  Do  I  wish  it,  Anna  ?  Would  1  be  spared  ?  No,  my 
wife !  This  duty  is  doubly  incumbent  on  me  now.  This 


EXPLANATION  —  THE  OATH  RENEWED.        293 

reptile  has  made  your  wrong  doubly  that  of  your  husband, 
lias  he  not  renewed  his  criminal  attempt  under  my  own 
roof?  This,  this  alone,  would  justify  me  in  denying  him 
its  protection  ;  but  I  will  not.  He  shall  not  say  he  was 
entrapped !  As  the  obligation  is  a  religious  one,  I  shall 
execute  its  laws  with  the  deliberation  of  one  who  has  a 
task  from  God  before  him.  I  will  not  violate  the  holy 
pledges  of  hospitality,  though  he  has  done  so.  While  ho 
remains  in  my  threshold,  it  shall  protect  him.  But  fear 
not  that  vengeance  shall  be  done.  Before  God,  my  wife, 
I  renew  my  oath !" 

He  lifted  his  hand  to  heaven  as  he  spoke,  and  she  sunk 
upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  hands  clasped  his.  Her 
lips  parted  in  speech,  and  her  murmurs  readied  his  ears, 
but  what  she  spoke  was  otherwise  inaudible.  He  gently 
extricated  himself  from  her  embrace  —  went  to  the  basin, 
and  deliberately  bathed  his  forehead  in  the  cold  water. 
She  remained  in  her  prostrate  position,  her  face  clasped  in 
her  hands,  and  prone  upon  the  floor.  Having  performed 
his  ablutions,  Beauchampe  turned  and  looked  upon  her 
steadfastly,  but  did  not  seek  to  raise  her ;  and,  after  a  mo 
ment's  further  delay,  left  the  chamber  and  descended  the 
stairs. 

Then  his  wife  started  from  her  feet,  and  moved  toward 
the  toilet,  where  the  weapons  lay.  Her  hand  was  ex 
tended  as  if  to  grasp  them,  but  she  failed  to  do  so,  and 
staggered  forward  with  the  manner  of  one  suddenly  dizzy 
with  blindness.  With  this  feeling  she  turned  toward  the 
bod,  and  reached  it  in  time  to  save  herself  a  fall  upon  the 
floor.  She  sank  forward,  face  downward,  upon  the  couch  ; 
and  while  a  husky  sound  — a  feeble  sort  of  laughter,  wild' 
and  hysteric  — issued  from  her  throat,  she  lost  all  sense  of 
the  agony  that  racked  her  soul  and  brain,  in  the  temporary 
unconsciousness  of  both  ;  and  which,  but  for  the  relief  of 
this  timely  apathy,  must  have  been  fatal  to  life. 


J ! I  BEAUCHAMPR 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

REPRIEVE    AND    FLIGHT. 

WHEN  Colonel  Sharpc  heard  the  descending  footsteps  of 
Beauchampe  as  he  came  down  the  stairs,  he  asked  Barna 
bas  to  go  into  the  passage-way  and  meet  him  —  a  request 
which  made  the  other  look  a  little  blank. 

"  There  is  no  sort  of  danger  to  you,  and  you  hear  he 
walks  slowly,  not  like  a  man  in  a  passion  I  doubt  if  she 
has  told  him  all;  perhaps  she  has  told  him  nothing.  At 
all  events,  you  will  be  decidedly  the  best  person  to  receive 
intelligence  of  what  she  has  told.  I'm  thinking  it's  a 
false  alarm  after  all ;  but,  whether  true  or  false,  it  can  in 
no  manner  affect  you.  You  are  safe — go  out,  meet  him, 
and  learn  how  far  I  am  so." 

It  has  been  seen  that  the  will  of  the  superior  man,  in 
-spite  of  all  first  opposition,  usually  had  its  way  with-the  in 
ferior.  Mr.  Barnabas,  however  reluctant,  submitted  to  the 
wishes  of  his  companion,  and  with  some  misgivings,  and 
with  quite  slow  steps,  left  the  room  in  order  to  meet  with 
the  husband,  of  whose  rage  such  apprehensions  were  formed 
.in  both  their  minds.  Sharpe,  though  he  had  expressed 
himself  so  confidently,  or  at  least  so  hopefully,  to  Barnabas, 
was  really  full  of  apprehension.  The  moment  that  the  lat 
ter  left  the  room,  he  took  out  his  pistols,  deliberately  cocked 
them,  and  placing  them  behind  his  back,  moving  backward 
a  little  farther  from  the  en  Ira  rice  :  preparing  himself  in  this 


REPRIEVE    AND    FLIGHT.  295 

manner  for  the  encounter — if  that  became  inevitable  —  with 
the  angry  husband. 

But  the  danger  seemed  to  have  passed  away.  Silence 
followed.  The  steps  of  Beauchampe  were  no  longer  heard, 
ar.d,  moving  toward  one  of  the  front  windows,  the  criminal 
beheld  the  two,  already  at  a  distance,  and  about  to  disap 
pear  behind  the  copse  of  wood  that  spread  itself  in  front. 

Sharpe  breathed  more  freely,  and  began  to  fancy  that 
the  cloud  had  dispersed,  that  the  danger  was  overblown. 
He  was  mistaken.  Let  us  join  Beauchampe  and  his  com 
panion. 

"  Mr.  Barnabas,"  said  the  former,  "  I  speak  to  you  still 
as  to  a  ge.ntleman,  as  I  believe  you  have  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  past  crime  of  Colonel  Sharpe,  and  no  participation 
in  his  present  villany." 

"  Such  was  the  opening  remark  of  Beauchampe,  when  he 
had  led  the  other  from  the  house.  Mr.  Barnabas  was 
prompt  in  denial  and  disclaimer. 

"Crime  —  Beauchampe  —  villany!  Surely,  you  can  not 
think  1  had  any  knowledge  —  any  participation  —  ah! — do 
you  suppose  —  do  you  think  I  knew  anything  about  it — " 

"  About  what  ?"  demanded  the  suspicious  Beauchampe, 
coolly  fixing  his  eyes,  with  a  keen  glance,  upon  the  embar 
rassed  speaker. 

"Nay,  my  dear  Beauchampe  —  that's  the  question,"  said 
the  other.  "  You  speak  of  some  crime,  some  villany,  as  I 
understand  you,  of  which  our  friend  Sharpe  has  been  guilty. 
If  it  be  true,  that  he  has  been  guilty  of  any,  you  are  right 
in  supposing  that  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Nay,  my  dear 
fellow,  don't  think  it  strange  or  impertinent,  on  my  part,  if 
I  venture  a  conjecture  —  mark  me,  my  dear  fellow,  a  mere 
supposition  —  that  there  must  be  some  mistake  in  this  mat 
ter.  I  can't  think  that  Sharpe,  a  fellow  who  stands  so  high, 
whom  we  both  know  so  well  and  have  known  so  long,  such 
an  excellent  fellow  in  fact,  so  cursed  smart,  and  so  clever 
a  companion,  can  have  been  such  a  d d  fool  as  to 


296  BEAUCMAMPE. 

practised  any  villany,  at  least  upon  a  gentleman  whom  we 
both  love  and  esteem  so  much  as  yourself." 

"There's  no  mistake,  Mr.  Barnabas!"  said  the  other, 
gravely.  "  This  man  is  a  villain,  and  lias  been  practising 
his  villany  to  my  dishonor,  while  in  my  house  and  enjoying 
my  confidence  and  hospitality." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  it's  scarce  possible,  Beauchampe  ! 
The  crime's  too  monstrous.  I  still  think,  I  mean,  I  still 
hope,  that  there's  some  very  strange  mistake  in  the  matter 
which  can  be  explained." 

"  Unhappily,  sir.  there  is  none.  There  is  no  mistake, 
and  nothing  needs  explanation  !" 

"  That's  unfortunate,  very  unfortunate  !  May  I  ask,  rny 
dear  fellow,  what's  the  offence  ?" 

"  Surely,  of  this  I  drew  you  forth  to  tell  you,  in  order 
that  you  might  tell  him.  I  do  not  wish  to  take  his  life  in  my 
own  dwelling,  though  his  crime  might  well  justify  me  in  for 
getting  the  sacred  obligations  of  hospitality  —  might  justify 
me,  indeed,  in  putting  him  to  death  even  though  his  hands 
grasped  the  very  horns  of  the  altar.  He  has  busied  him 
self,  while  in  my  dwelling,  in  seeking  to  dishonor  its  mis 
tress.  While  we  rode,  sir,  and  in  our  absence,  he  has  toiled 
for  the  seduction  of  my  wife.  That's  his  crime  !  You  will 
tell  him  that  I  know  all  f" 

"  Great  God  !  What  madness,  what  folly,  what  could 
have  made  him  do  so  ?  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Beauchampe,  as 
he  has  failed,  not  succeeded,  eh  ?" 

The  speaker  stopped.  It  was  not  easy  to  finish  such  a 
sentence. 

" 1  can  not  guess  what  you  would  say,  Mr.  Barnabas, 
nor,  perhaps,  is  it  necessary.  You  will  please  to  go  back 
to  your  companion,  and  say  to  him  that  he  will  instantly 
leave  the  dwelling  which  he  has  endeavored  to  dishonor. 
I  see  that  your  horses  are  both  ready  —  a  sign,  sir,  that 
Colonel  Sharpo  has  not  be»ji>  entirely  unconscious  of  this 
necessity.  1  woald  fain  hope.  i.  i  Barnabas  that,  in  pro 


REPRIEVE    AND    FLIGHT.  297 

paring  to  depart  yourself,  you  acknowledge  no  more  serious 
obligation  to  do  so,  than  the  words  of  my  wife,  conveyed  at 
the  breakfast-table  !'* 

Tine  sentence  was  expressed  inquiringly,  and  the  keen, 
searching  glance  of  Beauchampe,  declared  a  lurking  sus 
picion  that  made  it  very  doubtful  to  Barnabas  whether  the 
husba,  d  did  not  fully  suspect  the  auxiliary  agency  which 
he  had  really  exhibited  in  the  dishonorable  proceedings  of 
Sharp?.  He  felt  this,  and  could  not  altogether  conceal  his 
confusion,  though  he  saw  the  necessity  of  a  prompt  reply. 

"  My  dear  .Beauchampe,  was  it  not  enough  to  make  a 
gentleman  think  of  trooping,  with  bag  and  baggage,  when 
the  lady  of  the  house  gives  him  notice  to  quit." 

"  But  the  notice  was  not  given  to  you,  Mr.  Barnabas.11 

**  Granted ;  but  Sharpe  and  myself  were  friends,  you 
know,  and  came  together,  and  being  the  spokesman  in  the 
case,  you  see — " 

"  Enough,  Mr.  Barnabas  ;  I  ask  no  explanation  from  you. 
1  do  not  say  to  you  that  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  quit 
along  with  Colonel  Sharpe,  but  as  your  horse  is  ready,  per 
haps  it  is  quite  as  well  that  you  should." 

ic  Hem  !  such  was  my  purpose,  Mr.  Beauchampe.1' 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  you  wrill  do  me  the  favor  for  which  I  re 
quested  your  company,  to  say  to  him  that  the  whole  history 
of  his  conduct  is  known  to  me.  In  order  that  he  should 
have  no  further  doubts  on  this  subject,  you  will  suffer  me  to 
intrude  upon  you  a  painful  piece  of  domestic  history." 

"  My  dear  Beauchampe,  if  it's  so  very  painful — " 

"  I  perceive,  Mr.  Barnabas,  that  what  I  am  about  to  re 
late  will  not  have  the  merit  of  novelty  to  you." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  but  it  will  —  I  mean,  I  reckon  it  will.  1 
really  am  very  ignorant  of  what  you  intend  to  mention.  I 
am,  sir,  upon  my  honor,  I  ajn  !'' 

Beauchampe  regarded  the  creature  with  a  cold  smile  of 
the  most  utter  contempt,  and  when  he  had  ended,  re 
sumed  ;  — 


298  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Tell  Colonel  Sharpe,  if  you  please,  that,  before  I  mar 
ried  Mrs.  Beaucbampe,  she  herself  told  me  the  whole  his 
tory  of  Alfred  Stevens  and  her  own  unhappy  frailty,  while 

she  swore  me  to  avenge  her  dishonor.     Tell  him    that  1 
vv  c 

will  avenge  it,  and  that  he  must  prepare  himself  accord 
ingly.     My  house  confers  on  him  the  temporary  privilege 
of  safety.     He  will  leave  it  as  soon  as  convenient  after  you 
'    return  to  it.     I  will  seek  him  only  after  he  has  reached  his 
own  ;  and  when  we  meet  it  is  with  the  one  purpose  of  tak 
ing  his  life  or  losing  my  own.     There  can  be  no  half  strug 
gle  between  us.     There  can  be  jio  mercy.     Blood,  alone ! 
<     the  blood  of  life  —  the  life  itself — can  acquit  me  of  my 
j     sworn  obligation.     It  may  be  his  life,  or  it  may  be  mine  ; 
\  •  but  he  must  understand,  that,  while  I  live,  the  forfeit  stands 
against  him,  not  to  be  redeemed  but  in  his  blood  !     This  is 
all,  sir,  that  I  have  to  say/' 
"  But,  my  dear  Beauchampe  — 

"  No  more,  Mr.  Barnabas,  if  you  please.  There  can  be 
nothing  more  between  us.  You  will  understand  me  further, 
when  I  tell  you  that  1  am  not  assured  of  your  entire  free 
dom  from  this  last  contemplated  crime  of  Colonel  Sharpe. 
I  well  know  your  subserviency  to  his  wishes,  and  but  for 
the  superior  nature  of  his  crime,  and  that  I  do  not  wish  tc 
distract  my  thoughts  from  the  sworn  and  solemn  purpose 
before  me,  I  should  be  compelled  to  show  you  that  I  regard 
the  weakness  which  makes  itself  the  minister  of  crime  as  a 
quality  which  deserves  its  chastisement  also.  Leave  me, 
if  you  please,  sir.  I  have  subdued  myself  witli  great  diffi 
culty,  to  the  task  I  have  gone  through,  and  would  not  wish 
to  be  provoked  into  a  forgetfulness  of  my  forbearance.  You 
are  in  possession  of  all  that  I  mean  to  say — your  horses 
are  ready  —  I  suspect  your  friend  is  ready  also!  Good 
morning,  sir  !" 

The  speaker  turned  into  the  copse,  and  Mr.  Barnabas 
was  quite  too  prudent  a  person  to  follow  him  with  any 
further  expostulations.  The  concluding  warning  of  Beau 


REPRIEVE    AND    FLIGHT.  299 

champe  was  not  lost  upon  him;  and,  glad  to  get  off  so 
well,  he  hurried  back  to  the  house,  where  Sliarpe  was  await 
ing  him  with  an  eagerness  of  anxiety  which  was  almost 
feverish. 

''Well  —  what  has  he  to  say  ?  You  were  long  enough 
about  it !" 

"  The  delay  was  mine.  lie  was  as  brief  as  charity.  He 
knows  all/' 

"  All !  impossible  !" 

"All  —  every  syllable!  Nay,  says  lie  knew  the  whole 
story  of  Alfred  Stevens  and  of  his  wife's  frailty  before  he 
married  "her.  Begs  me  particularly  to  tell  you  that,  and 
to  say,  moreover,  that  he  was  sworn  to  avenge  her  wrong 
before  marriage." 

"  Then  she  told  me  nothing  but  the  truth  !  What  a  blind 
ass  I  have  been  not  to  know  it,  and  believe  her !  I  should 
have  known  that  she  was  like^no  other  woman  under  the 
sun!" 

"  It's  too  late  now  for  such  reflections :  the  sooner  we're 
off  the  better!" 

"  Ay,  ay  !  but  what  more  does  he  say  ?" 

"  That  you  are  safe  till  you  reach  your  own  home  ;  but, 
after  that,  never !  It's  your  life  or  his  !  lie  swears  it !" 

"  But  was  he  furious  ?" 

"No  —  by  no  means." 

"  Then  I'm  deceived  in  the  man  as  well  as  the  woman ! 
If  he  lets  me  off  now,  I  suspect  there's  little  to  fear." 

"  Don't  deceive  yourself.  He  looked  ready  to  break  out 
at  a  moment's  warning.  It  was  evidently  hard  work  with 
him  to  contain  himself.  Some  fantastic  notion  about  the 
obligations  of  hospitality  alone  prevented  him  from  seeking 
instant  redress." 

"  Fantastic  or  not,  Barnabas,  the  reprieve  is  something. 
I  don't  fear  the  cause,  however  bad,  if  I  can  stave  it  off 
for  a  term  or  two.  Witnesses  may  die,  in  the  meantime ; 
principals  become  unsettled  ;  now  judges,  with  new  dicta. 


300  BEAUCHAMPE. 

conic  in,  and  there  is  always  hope  in  conflicting  authori 
ties.  To  horse,  mon  ami!  —  a  reprieve  is  a  long  step  to  a 
full  pardon." 

"  It's  something,  certainly,"  said  the  other,  "  and  I'm  suro 
I'm  glad  of  it;  but  don't  deceive  yourself.  Be  on  your 
guard.  If  ever  there  was  a  man  seriously  savage  in  his 
resolution,  Beauchampe  is." 

"Pshaw!  Barnabas!  —  you  were  ever  an  alarmist!" 
replied  Sharpe,  whose  elasticity  had  returned  to  him 
with  the  withdrawal  of  the  momentary  cause  of  appre 
hension. 

"  We  shall  tame  this  monster,  however  savage,  if  you 
only  give  us  time.  Let  him  come  to  Frankfort,  and  we'll 
set  the  whole  corps  of  'Red-Hats,'  yours  among  'cm,  at 
work  to  get  him  to  the  conclave ;  and  one  Saturday's  bout, 
well  plied,  will  mellow  body  and  soul  in  such  manner  that 
he  will  never  rage  afterward,  however  he  may  roar.  I  tell 
you,  my  lad,  time  is  something  more  than  money.  It  sub 
dues  hate  and  anger,  softens  asperity,  wakens  up  new  prin 
ciples,  makes  old  maids  young  ones  —  ay,  my  boy,  and" — 
here,  looking  up  over  his  horse,  which  he  was  just  about 
to  mount,  at  the  windows  of  Bcauchampe's  chamber,  and 
closing  the  sentence  in  a  whisper — "  ay,  my  boy,  and  may 
even  enable  me  to  overcome  this  sorceress  —  this  tigress, 
if  you  prefer  it — make  her  forget  that  she  is  a  wife  —  for 
get  everything,  but  the  days  when  J  taught  her  her  first 
lessons  in  loving !" 

"  Sharpe."  exclaimed  the  other  in  a  sort  of  husky  hor 
ror,  "  you  are  a  perfect  dare-devil,  to  speak  so  in  the  very 
den  of  the  lion  ?'' 

"  Ay,  but  it  is  while  thinking  of  the  lioness."  , 

"  Keep  me  from  the  claws  of  both  !"  ejaculated  Barnabas, 
with  an  honest  terror,  as  he  struck  spurs  into  the  flanks  of 
his  horse. 

"I  do  not  now  feel  as  if  I  feared  either!"  replied  the 
other. 


REPRIEVE    AXD    FLIGHT.  301 

"  Don't  halloo  till  out  of  the  woods !" 

uNo!  —  but,  Barnabas,  do  you  really  think  that  this 
woman  is  .sincere  in  giving  me  up  ?" 

"  Surely  !     How  can  I  think  otherwise  ?" 

"  Ah,  my  boy,  you  know  nothing  of  the  sex." 

"  Well — but  she  has  told  him  all.  How  do  you  explain 
that  ?" 

"  She  has  had  her  reasons.  She  perhaps  finds,  or  fan 
cies,  that  Beauchampe  suspects.  She  hopes  to  blind  him 
by  this  apparent  frankness.  She's  not  in  earnest." 

"  D — n  such  manoeuvring,  say  I !" 

''Give  us  time,  Barnabas  —  time,  my  boy,  and  I  shall 
nave  her  at  my  feet  yet!  I  do  not  doubt  that,  with  the 
help  of  some  of  our  boys,  I  shall  baffle  him;  and  I  will 
never  lose  sight  of  her  while  I  have  sight.  I  have  felt 
more  passion  for  that  woman  than  I  ever  felt  for  any  wo 
man  yet,  or  ever  expect  to  feel  for  another ;  and,  if  scheme 
and  perseverance  will  avail  for  anything,  she  shall  yet  be 
mine !" 

"  If  such  were  your  feelings  for  her,  why  didn't  you  marry 
her  in  Charlemont  ?" 

"So  I  would  have  done — if  it  had  been  necessary; 
but  who  pays  for  his  fruit  when  he  can  get  it  for  noth 
ing?" 

"  True,"  replied  the  other,  evidently  struck  by  the  force 
of  this  dictum  in  moral  philosophy  —  "that's  very  true; 
but  the  fruit  has  its  Argus  now,  if  it  had  not  then  ;  and  the 
paws  of  Briareus  may  be  upon  your  throat,  if  you  look 
too  earnestly  over  the  wall.  My  counsel  to  you  is,  briefly, 
that  you  arrive  with  all  possible  speed  at  the  faith  of  the 
fox." 

"  What !  sour  grapes  ?  No,  no,  Barnabas  !  —  the  grapes 
are  swee* — as  I  do  not  think  them  entirely  out  of  reach. 
As  for  the  dragon,  we  shall  yet  contrive  to  *  calm  the  ter 
rors  cf  his  olaws.' ' 

So  speaking,  they  rode  out  of  sight,  the  courage  of  born 


302  BEAUCHAMPK. 

rising  as  they  receded  from  the  place  of  danger.  Whether 
Sharpe  really  resolved  on  the  reckless  course  which  he 
expressed  to  his  companion,  or  simply  sought,  with  the 
inherent  vanity  of  a  small  man,  to  excite  the  wonder  of  the 
latter,  is  of  no  importance  to  our  narrative.  In  either 
case,  his  sense  of  morals  and  of  society  is  equally  and 
easily  understood. 


,  >E. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

CHALLENGE. 

COLONEL  SHARPE  sat,  one  pleasant  forenoon,  in  the  snug 
parlor  of  his  elegant  mansion  in  the  good  city  of  Frank 
fort.  It  was  a  dies  non  with  him.  He  had  leisure,  and 
his  leisure  was  a  leisure  which  had  its  sauce.  It  was  a 
satisfactory  leisure.  The  prospect  of  wealth  with  dignity  \> 
was  before  him.  Clients  were  numerous ;  fees  liberal ; 
his  political  party  had  achieved  its  triumph,  and  his  own 
co-aimssion  as  attorney-general  of  the  state  was  made  out 
in  the  fairest  characters.  The  world  went  on  swimmingly. 
Truly,  it  was  a  blessed  world.  So  one  may  fancy,  with 
the  wine  and  walnuts  before  him.  Ah,  how  much  of  the 
beauty  of  this  visible  world  depends  on  one's  dessert — and 
digestion ! 

Colonel  Sharpe's  dessert  was  excellent,  but  his  digestion 
not  so  good.  Nay,  there  were  some  things  that  lie  could 
not  digest ;  but  of  these,  at  the  pleasant  moment  when  we 
have  thought  proper  to  look  in  upon  him,  he  did  not  think. 
His  thoughts  were  rather  agreeable  than  otherwise ;  per 
haps  we  should  say,  rather  exciting  than  agreeable.  They 
were  less  sweet  than  piquant ;  but  they  were  such  as  he 
did  not  seek  to  disperse.  A  man  of  the  world  relishes  his 
bitters  occasionally.  It  is  your  long-legged  lad  of  eighteen 
uho  purses  his  lips  while  his  eyes  run  water,  as  he  imbibes 
the  acrid  but  spicy  flavor.  Colonel  Sharpe  was  no  such 
boy.  He  could  linger  over  the  draught,  and  sip,  with  a 


304  BEAITHAMPK. 

Sense  of  relish,  from  the  mingling  but  not  discordant  ele 
ments.     He  was  no  milksop.     He  had  renounced  the  natu 
ral  tastes  at  a  very  early  day. 

He  thought  of  Margaret  Cooper — we  should  say  Mrs. 
Beauchampe,  but  that,  when,  he  recalled  her  to  his  memory, 
she  always  came  in  the  former,  never  in  the  latter  charac 
ter.  He  did  not  like  to  think  of  her  as  the  wife  of  another. 
The  reflection  made  him  sore ;  though,  to  think  of  her  was 
always  a  source  of  pleasure  in  a  greater  or  less  degree.  But 
he  had  not  forgotten  the  husband  ;  and  now,  in  connection 
with  the  wife,  he  felt  himself  unavoidably  compelled  to 
think  of  him.  II  is  countenance  assumed  a  meditative  as 
pect.  There  was  a  gathering  frown  upon  his  brow  in  spite 
of  his  successes.  At  this  moment  a  rap  was  heard  at  the 
door,  and  Mr.  Barnabas  was  announced. 

"  Ha!  Barnabas  —  how  d'ye  do?" 

"  Well  —  when  did  you  get  back  ?" 

"  Last  night,  after  dark." 

"  Yes  —  I  looked  in  yesterday  and  you  were  not  ha. 
then.     What  news  bring  you  ?" 

"  None  !     Have  you  any  here  ?"   * 

"  As  little.  It's  enough  to  know  that  all's  right.  We  air 
quite  joyful  here  —  nothing  to  dash  our  triumph." 

"That's  well,  and  our  triumph  is  complete;  but'* — 
with  an  air  of  abstraction  — "  what  do  you  hear  of  Beau 
champe  ?" 

"  Not  a  word — but  he's  in  Frankfort!" 

"Ha!  indeed!" 

"  Was  here  two  days  ago.   Haven't  you  heard  from  him  ?" 

"  Not  a  syllable." 

"  But  how  could  you  —  going  to  and  fro,  and  so  brief  a 
time  in  any  place,  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  find  you !" 

"  I  doubt  if  he'll  do  anything,  Barnabas.  The  affair 
will  be  made  so  much  worse  by  stirring.  He'll  not  think 
of  it  —  he's  very  proud — very  sensitive  —  very  sensible  tc 
ridicule !" 


CHALLENGE.  305 

"  I  don't  know.  I  Hope  he  won't.  But  he's  as  strange 
an  animal  as  the  woman,  his  wife;  and,  I  tell  you,  there 
was  a  damned  sour  seriousness  about  him  when  he  spoke  to 
me  on  the  subject,  that  makes  me  apprehensive  that  he'll 
keep  his  word.  The  ides  of  March  are  not  over  yet." 

Sharpe's  gravity  increased.     His  friend  rose  to  depart. 

"  Where  do  von  0:0  ?" 

v  O 

"  To  Folker's.  I  have  some  business  there.  I  just  heard 
that  you  were  here,  and  looked  in  to  say  how  happy  we  all 
are  in  our  successes." 

"  You  will  sup  with  me  to-night,  Barnabas.  I  want  you  : 
I  feel  dull." 

"  The  devil  you  do  —  what,  and  just  made  attorney- 
general  !" 

"  Even  so  !     Honors  are  weighty." 

"  Not  the  less  acceptable  for  that.  Glamis  thou  art — 
Cawdor  shalt  be  —  and  let  me  be  your  weird  sister,  and 
proclaim,  yet  further — 'Thou  shalt  be  king  hereafter!' 
governor,  I  mean." 

"  Ah !  you  are  sharp,  this  morning,  Barnabas,"  said 
Sharpe,  his  muscles  relaxing  into  a  pleasant  smile.  "  I 
shall  expect  you  to-night,  if  it  be  only  to  hear  the  repetition 
of  these  agreeable  predictions." 

"  I  will  not  fail  you  !  addio  !" 

Colonel  Sharpo  sat  once  more  alone.  Pleasant  indeed 
were  the  fancies  which  the  words  of  Mr.  Barnabas  had 
awakened  in  his  mind.  He  murmured  in  the  strain  of  dra 
matic  language,  which  the  quotation  of  his  friend  had  sug 
gested,  as  hft  ;raccd  the  apartment  to  and  fro: — 

"  'I  know  I'm  thane  of  Glamis, 
*>at  how  of  Cawdor  — 

—  And  to  be  kiri^, 
~>:     i?t  ^it.hir  the  prr.-psct  of  belief.' 

Ay, but  it  doe?  ;"  he  proceeded  in  the  more  sober  prose  of 
his  own  rejections ;  "  The  steps  are  fair  and  cisy.     Bar 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

nabas  is  no  fool  in  such  matters,  though  no  wit.  He  knows 
the  people.  He  can  sound  them  as  well  as  any  man.  This 
suggestion  does  not  come  from  himself.  No  —  no!  It 
comes  from  a  longer  head.  It  must  be  Clay  !  Hem  !  this 
is  to  be  thought  upon !  His  word  against  a  thousand 
pounds  !  If  he  thinks  so,  it  is  as  good  as  done  ;  and  Barna 
bas  is  only  an  echo,  when  he  says,  '  Thou  shalt  be  king 
hereafter !'  Poor  Barnabas !  how  readily  he  takes  his 
color  from  his  neighbor." 

A  rap  at  the  door  arrested  these  pleasant  reflections. 
The  soliloquist  started  and  grew  pale.  There  was  surely  a 
meaning  in  that  rap.  It  was  not  that  of  an  ordinary  ac 
quaintance.  It  wanted  freedom,  rapidity.  It  was  very 
deliberate  and  measured.  One  —  two  —  three  ! — you  could 
count  freely  in  the  intervals.  A  strange  voice  was  heard  at 
the  door. 

"  Colonel  Sharpc  is  in  town  —  is  he  at  home  !" 

The  servant  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  appeared  a 
moment  after,  followed  by  a  stranger — a  gentleman  of  dark, 
serious  complexion,  whose  face  almost  declared  his  busi 
ness.  The  host  felt  an  unusual  degree  of  discomposure  for 
which  he  could  not  so  easily  account. 

"  Be  seated,  sir,  if  you  please.  I  have  not  the  pleasure 
of  your  name." 

"  Covington,  sir,  is  my  name  —  John  A.  Covington." 

"  Covington  —  John  A.  Covington  !  I  havo  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  a  gentleman  whose  name  very  much  resembles 
yours.  1  know  John  TV.  Covington." 

4'  I  am  a  very  different  person,"  answcicd  i-he  stranger. 
—  "I  have  not  the  honor  of  being  ranked  among  your 
friends. 

The  stranger  spoke  very  coldly.  A  brief  pause  followed 
his  words,  in  which  Colcriel  Sharpens  discomposure  rather 
underwent  increase  The  keen  eye  cf  Ocvington  observed 
his  face,  while  he  very  deliberately  drew  irom  his  pocket  a 


CHALLENGE.  307 

paper  which  he  handed  to  Sharpe,  who  took  it  with  very 
sensible  agitation  of  nerve. 

"  Do  me  the  favor,  sir,  to  read  that.  It  is  from  Mr. 
Beauehampe.  He  tells  me  you  are  prepared  for  it.  It  is 
open,  you  see  :  I  am  aware  of  its  contents." 

"  From  Beauehampe— 

"  Mr.  Beauehampe,  sir,"  said  the  visitor,  coolly  correct 
ing  the  freedom  of  the  speaker. 

"  This  paper,  as  you  will  see  by  the  date,  sir,  has  bee . 
some  time  in  my  hands.  Your  absence  in  the  country,  alons 
prevented  its  delivery." 

"Yes,  sir" — said  Sharpe,  slowly,  and  turning  over  the 
envelope  —  "yes,  sir;  this,  I  perceive,  is  a  peremptory 
challenge,  sir  ?" 

"It  is." 

"  But,  Mr.  Covington,  there  may  be  explanations,  sir." 

"  None,  sir  !  Mr.  Beauehampe  tells  me  that  this  is  impos 
sible,  lie  adds,  moreover,  that  you  know  it.  There  is  but 
one  issue,  he  assures  me  between  you,  and  that  is  life  or 
death." 

"  Really,  sir,  there  is  no  good  reason  for  this.  Mr.  Cov 
ington,  you  are  a  man  of  the  world.  You  know  what  is 
due  to  society.  You  will  not  lend  yourself  to  any  meas 
ure  of  unnecessary  bloodshed.  You  have  a  right,  sir — 
surely  you  have  a  right,  sir,  to  interpose,  and  accept  some 
more  qualified  atonement  —  perhaps,  sir  —  an  apology  — 
the  expression  of  my  sincere  regret  and  sorrow,  sir — " 

The  other  shook  his  head  coldly — 

"  My  friend  leaves  me  none." 

"  But,  sir,  if  you  knew  the  cause  of  this  hostility — if — " 

"  I  do  sir  !"  was  the  stem  reply. 

"  Indeed  !  But  arc  you  sure  that  you  have  heard  it  ex 
actly  as  it  is.  There  arc  causes  which  qualify  offence— 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Beauehampe,  sir,  in  preference  to  any 
other  witness.  This  offence,  sir.  admits  of  none.  You  will 
permit  me  to  add,  though  extra-official,  that  my  friend  deals 


308  BEAUCHAMPE. 

with  you  very  magnanimously.  The  provocation  is  of  a 
sort  which  deprives  you  of  any  claim  of  courtesy.  May  1 
ave  your  answer,  sir,  to  the  only  point  to  which  this  let 
ter  relates  !  Will  you- refer  me  to  your  friend  ?" 

'-'Sir  —  Mr.  Covington  —  I  will  not  fight  Mr.  Beau- 
champc  !" 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  —  can  it  be  possible  !'  exclaimed  Coving- 
ton,  rising  from  his  chair  and  regarding  the  speaker  with 
surprise. 

"  No,  sir  !  I  can  not  fight  him.  I  have  wronged  him  too 
greatly.  I  can  not  lift  weapon  against  his  life  !" 

"  Colonel  Sharpe  —  this  will  never  do  !  You  arc  a  Ken- 
tuckian  !  You  arc  regarded  as  a  Kentucky  gentleman !  1 
say  nothing  on  the  score  of  your  claim  to  this  diameter. 
Let  me  remind  you  of  the  penalties  which  will  follow  this 
refusal  to  do  my  friend  justice." 

"I  know  them,  sir — I  know  them  all.  I  defy  them  — 
will  bear  them,  but  I  can  not  fight  Beauchampe  !" 

"  You  will  be  disgraced,  sir:  I  must  post  you  !" 

Sharps  strode  the  apartment  hastily.  Bis  check  was 
flushed.  He  felt  the  humiliation  of  his  position.  In  ordi 
nary  matters,  in  the  usual  spirit  of  society,  he  was  no 
coward.  We  have  seen  how  readily  he  fought  with  Wil 
liam  Calvert.  But  he  could  not  meet  Beauchampe  —  he 
could  not  nerve  himself  to  the  encounter. 

"  I  can  not,  will  not  fight  Beauchampe  !"  was  his  mut 
tered  ejaculation.  "  No  !  I  have  wronged  him  —  wronged 
her  !  I  dare  not  meet  him.  I  can  never  do  it !" 

"  Be  not  rash,  Colonel  Sharpe,"  said  the  other.  "  Think 
of  it  again  before  you  give  me  such  an  answer.  I  will 
give  you  three  hours  for  deliberation  :  I  will  call  again  at 
four." 

"No,  sir  —  no,  Mr.  Covington  —  the  wrongs  I  have  done 
to  Beauchampe  are  known  —  probably  well  known.  The 
world  will  understand  that  I  can  not  fight  him  —  that  my 
offence  is  of  such  a  nature,  that,  to  lift  weapon  against  him. 


CHALLENGE. 


309 


would  be  monstrous.  You  may  post  me,  sir  ;  but  no  one 
who  knows  me  will  believe  that  it  is  fear  that  makes  me 
deny  this  meeting.  They  will  know  all ;  they  will  acquit 
me  of  the  imputation  of  cowardice." 

"  And  how  should  they  know,"  demanded  Covington 
sternly,  "  unless  you  make  them  acquainted  with  the  facts, 
and  thus  add  another  to  my  friend's  causes  of  provoca 
tion  ?" 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Covington,  he  himself  told  Mr.  Barnabas." 

'•  True,  sir ;  but  that  was  in  a  special  communication  to 
yourself,  which  implied  confidence,  and  must  have  secrecy. 
My  friend  will  have  his  remedy  against  Mr.  Barnabas,  if  he 
docs  not  against  you,  if  he  speaks  what  he  should  not. 
There  is  a  way,  sir,  to  muzzle  your  barking  dogs." 

"  It  is  known  to  others  —  Mr.  William  Calvert,  with  whom 
I  fought  on  this  very  quarrel." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  new  to  me ;  but  as  you  fought  in  this  very 
quarrel  with  Mr.  Calvert,  it  seems  to  me  that  your  objec 
tion  fails.  You  must  fight  with  Mr.  Beauchampe  also  on 
the  same  quarrel." 

"Never,  sir  I  You  have  my  answer  —  I  will  not  meet 
him!" 

"  Do  not  mistake  your  position  with  the  public,  Colonel 
Sharpe.  The  extent  of  the  wrong  which  you  have  done  to 
Beauchampe  only  makes  your  accountability  the  greater. 
Nobody  will  acquit  you  on  this  score ;  nay,  any  effort  to 
make  known  to  the  people  the  true  cause  of  Mr.  Beau- 
champe's  hostility  will  make  it  obvious  that  you  seek  rather 
to  excuse  your  cowardice,  than  to  show  forbearance,  or  to 
make  atonement.  Truly,  they  will  regard  that  as  a  very 
strange  sort  of  remorse  which  publishes  the  shame  of  the 
wife  in  order  to  justify  a  refusal  to  meet  the  husband !" 

"I  will  not  publish  it — Beauchampe  has  already  done 
so." 

"  It  is  known  to  two  persons,  sir,  through  him.  It  need 
not  be  known  to  more.  Colonel  Calvert  is  a  friend  of  mine. 


;UO  IJKAUCHAMl'E. 

He  is  not  the  man  to  speak  of  the  affair.  Besides,  I  will 
communicate  to  him  on  the  subject,  and  secure  his  silence. 
You  shall  have  no  refuge  of  this  sort." 

"  I  have  answered  you,  Mr.  Covington,"  said  Sharpe, 
doggedly. 

"  I  must  post  you,  then,  as  a  scoundrel  and  a  coward !" 

Sharpe  turned  upon  the  speaker  with  a  look  of  suddenly- 
roused  fury  in  his  face,  but,  swallowing  the  word  which 
rose  to  his  lips,  lie  turned  away.  The  other  proceeded 
coolly : — 

"  This  shall  be  done,  sir ;  and  I  must  warn  yon  that  the 
affair  will  not  end  here.  Mr.  Beauchampe  will  disgrace 
you  in  the  public  streets." 

The  sweat  trickled  from  the  brows  of  Sharpe  in  thick 
drops  such  as  precede  the  torrents  of  the  thunderstorm. 
He  strove  to  speak,  but  the  convulsive  emotions  of  his 
bosom  effectually  baffled  utterance ;  and,  with  dilated  eyes 
and  laboring  breast,  he  strode  the  floor,  utterly  incapable 
of  self-control.  Covington  lingered. 

"  You  will  repent  this,  Colonel  Sharpe.  You  will  recall 
me  when  too  late.  Suffer  me  to  see  you  this  afternoon  for 
your  answer." 

The  other  advanced  to  him,  then  turned  away ;  once 
more  approached,  and  again  receded.  A  terrible  strife 
was  at  work  within  him  ;  but,  when  he  did  find  words,  they 
expressed  no  bolder  determination  than  before.  Covington 
regarded  him  with  equal  pity  and  contempt,  as  he  turned 
away  evidently  dissatisfied  and  disappointed. 

He  was  scarcely  gone  when  the  miserable  man  found 
words : — 

"  God  of  heaven,  that  I  should  feel  thus  !  —  that  1  should 
be  so  unmanned !  Why  is  this  ?  why  is  the  strength  de 
nied  me  —  the  courage  —  which  never  failed  before?  It  is 
not  too  late.  He  has  scarcely  left  the  step !  I  will  recall 
him.  He  shall  have  another  answer  !"  —  and,  with  this  late 
resolution,  he  darted  to  the  entrance  and  laid  his  hand  upon 


CHALLENGE.  311 

the  knob  of  the  door ;  but  the  momentary  impulse  had  al 
ready  departed,  lie  left  it  unopened.  He  recoiled  from 
the  entrance,  and,  striking  his  hands  against  his  forehead, 
groaned  in  all  the  novel  and  unendurable  bitterness  of  this 
unwonted  humiliation. 

"And  this  is  the  man  —  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all! — king 
hereafter,  too,  as  Mr.  Barnabas  promised  —  echoing,  of 
course,  the  language  of  that  great  political  machinist,  Mr. 
Clay.  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Did  some  devil  growl  this  commentary  in  the  ears  of  the 
miserable  man  ?  He-  heard  it,  and  shuddered  from  head 
to  foot. 


v 

'  V  c  .    '\l ' 


,  H 


312  KEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

PROGRESS  OF  PASSION. 

LET  nobody  imagine  that  a  sense  of  shame  implies  re 
morse  or  repentance.  Nay,  let  them  not  be  sure  that  it 
implies  anything  like  forbearance  in  the  progress  of  offence. 
It  was  not  so  with  our  attorney-general.  The  moment  he 
recovered,  in  any  fair  degree,  his  composure,  he  despatched 
a  messenger  for  his  friend  Barnabas.  He,  good  fellow, 
came  at  the  first  summons.  We  will  not  say  that  his  foot 
steps  were  not  absolutely  quickened  by  the  recollection 
that  it  was  just  then  the  dinner-hour;  and,  possibly,  some 
fancy  took  possession  of  his  mind,  leading  him  to  the  strange 
but  pleasant  notion  that  Sharpe  had  suddenly  stumbled 
upon  some  bonne  douche  in  the  market-place,  of  particular 
excellence,  of  which  he  was  very  anxious  that  his  friend 
should  partake.  The  supper,  be  it  remarked,  was  no  less 
an  obligation  still !  Conceptive  Mr.  Barnabas  I  Certainly, 
he  had  some  such  idea.  The  bonne  bouche  quickened  his 
movements.  He  came  seasonably.  The  dinner  was  not 
consumed ;  perhaps  not  quite  ready :  but,  for  the  bonne 
bouche  —  alas  !  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi! 

Such  is  the  inscription,  at  least,  upon  this  one  pleasant 
hope  of  our  amiable  philosopher.  There  was  a  morsel  for 
liis  digestion,  or  rather  for  that  of  his  friendly  entertainer ; 
but,  unhappily,  it  we.a  one  that  neither  was  well  prepared 
to  swallow.  Mr.  Barnabas  was  struck  dumb  by  the  intelli 
gence  which  he  heard.  He  was  not  surprised  that  Bean- 


PROGRESS   OF   PASSION.  6± 

champo  had  sent  a  challenge :  his  surprise,  amounting  tc 
utter  consternation,  was  that  his  friend  should  have  refused 
it.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  the  usual  bold  carriage  ot 
Colonel  Sharpe  —  knew  so  well  his  ordinary  promptness  — 
nay,  had  seen  his  readiness  on  former  occasions  to  do  bat 
tle,  right  or  wrong,  with  word  or  weapon  —  that  he  was 
taken  all  aback  with  wonder  at  a  change  so  sudden  and 
unexpected.  Besides,  it  must  be  recollected  that  Mr.  Bar 
nabas  was  brought  up  in  that  school  of  an  earlier  period, 
throughout  the  whole  range  of  southern  and  western  coun 
try,  which  rendered  it  the  point  of  honor  to  yield  redress 
at  the  first  summons,  and  in  whatever  form  the  summoner 
pleased  to  require.  That  school  was  still  one  of  authority, 
not  merely  with  Mr.  Barnabas,  but  with  the  country;  and 
the  loss  of  caste  was  one  of  those  terrible  social  conse 
quences  of  any  rejection  of  this  authority  which  lie  had  not 
the  courage  to  consider  without  absolute  horror.  When 
he  did  speak,  the  friends  had  changed  places.  They  no 
longer  stood  in  the  old  relation  to  each  other.  Instead  of 
Colonel  Sharpe's  being  the  superior  will,  while  that  of 
Barnabas  was  submission,  the  latter  grew  suddenly  strong, 
almost  commanding. 

"  But,  Sharpe,  you  must  meet  him.  By  Jupiter,  it  won't 
do  !  You're  disgraced  for  ever,  if  you  don't.  You  can't 
escape.  You  must  fight  him." 

"  I  can  not,  Barnabas  !  I  was  never  so  unnerved  in  my 
life  before.  I  can  not  meet  him.  I  can  not  lift  weapon 
against  the  husband  of  Margaret  Cooper." 

"  Be  it  so ;  but,  at  all  events,  receive  his  fire." 

"  Even  for  this  I  am  unprepared.  I  tell  you,  Barnabas, 
I  never  felt  so  like  a  cur  in  all  my  life.  I  never  knew  till 
now  what  it  was  to  fear." 

"  Shake  it  off;  it's  only  a  passing  feeling.  When  you're 
up,  and  facing  him,  you  will  cease  to  feel  so." 

The  other  shook  his  head  with  an  expression  of  utter 
despair  and  self-abandonment. 

14 


314  BEAUCIIAMPE. 

"  By  God,  I  know  better !"  exclaimed  Barnabas  warmly  ; 
•'  I've  seen  you  on  the  ground  —  I've  seen  you  fight.  There 
wr.s  that  chap  Calvert — " 

u  Barnabas,  it  is  in  vain  that  you  expostulate.  I  have 
fought  —  have  been  in  frequent  strifes  with  men,  and  brave 
men  too  —  but  never  knew  such  feelings  as  oppress  me  now, 
and  have  oppressed  me  ever  since  I  had  this  message.  Do 
not  suppose  me  insensible  to  the  shame.  It  burns  in  my 
brain  with  agony  ;  it  rives  my  bosom  with  a  choking  and 
continual  spasm.  A  hundred  times,  since  Covington  lias 
been  gone,  have  I  started  up  with  the  view  to  sending  him 
a  message,  declaring  myself  ready  to  meet  his  friend  ;  but 
as  often  has  this  cursed  feeling  come  upon  me,  paralyzing 
the  momentary  courage,  and  depriving  me  of  all  power  of 
action.  I  feel  that  I  can  not  meet  Beauchampe  —  I  feel 
that  I  dare  not." 

"  Great  God  !  what  are  we  to  do  ?  Think,  my  dear  fel 
low,  what  is  due  to  your  station  —  to  your  position  in  the 
party!  Remember,  you  are  just  now  made  attorney-gen 
eral:  you  are  the  observed  of  all  observers.  Everything 
depends  upon  what  exhibition  you  make  now.  Get  over 
this  difficulty  —  man  yourself  for  this  meeting — and  the 
rest  is  easy.  Another  year  puts  you  at  the  very  head  of 
the  party." 

"  I  have  thought  01  all  these  things,  Barnabas  ;  and  one 
poor  month  ago,  had  an  angel  of  heaven  come  and  assured 
me  that  they  would  have  failed  to  provoke  me  to  the  en 
counter  with  any  foe,  however  terrible,  I  should  have  flouted 
the  idle  tidings.  Now,  I  can  not." 

"  You  must !  What  will  they  say  at  the  club  ?  You'll 
be  expelled,  Sharpe — think  of  that!  You'll  be  cut  by 
every  member.  Covington  will  post  you.  Nay,  ten  to  one 
but  Beauchampe  will  undertake  to  horsewhip  you." 

"  I  trust  I  shall  iind  courage  to  face  him  then,  Barnabas 
though  I  could  not  now.  Look  you,  Barnabas — something 
can  be  done  in  another  way.  Beauchampe  can  be  acted  on." 


PROGRESS   OF    PASSION.  315 

"  How  —  how  can  that  bo  done  ?  ' 

"  Two  or  three  judicious  follows  can  manage  \l  Ik  is 
only  to  show  him  that  any  prosecution  of  this  affair  neces 
sarily  leads  to  the  public  disgrace  of  his  wife.  It  is  easy 
to  show  him  that,  though  he  may  succeed  in  dishonoring 
me,  the  very  act  that  does  it  is  a  public  advertiser-lent  of 
her  sharno." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  the  other. 

"  Something  more,  Barnabas.  It  might  be  intimated  to 
Coving-ton  that,  as  Margaret  Cooper  had  a  child  —  r 

'•  Did  she,  indeed  ?" 

(i  So  I  ascertained  by  accident.  She  had  one  before 
leaving  Charlemont." 

"Indeed!  —  well?" 

"  Well  —  it  might  have  the  effect  of  making  him  quist  te  \ 
show  him  that  this  child  was  —  " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  whispered  in  the  earfi  cf  bus   i 
companion, 


"  The  d  —  1  it  was  !"  exclaimed  the  other.     "  But  is 
certain,  Sharpe  ?  —  for,  if  so,  it  acquits  you  altosretner.    The 
color  alone  would  be  conclusive." 

"  Certainly  it  would.  Now,  some  hint  of  this  kind  to 
Covington,  or  to  Beauchampe  himself— 

44  By  Jupiter,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  the  man  to  tell  him, 
nowever  !  He's  such  a  bulldog  !" 

"  Through  his  friend,  then.  It  might  be  done,  Barna 
bas  ;  and  it  can't  be  doubted  that  the  dread  of  such  a  report 
would  effectually  discourage  him  from  any  prosecution  of 
this  business.'1 

"  So  it  might  —  so  it  would  ;  but— 

"  Barnabas,  you  must  get  it  done." 

"  But,  my  dear  colonel— 

"  You  must  save  me,  Barnabas  —  relieve  me  of  this  diffi 
culty.  You  know  my  power  —  my  political  power  —  you 
see  my  strength.  I  can  P-M-VO  you  —  you  can  not  doubt  my 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

willingness  to  serve  you;  but  if  this  power  is  lost  —  if  - 
ain  disgraced  by  this  fellow  —  we  are  all  lost." 

"True  —  very  true.  It  must  be  done.  I  will  see  to  it. 
Make  yourself  easy.  I  will  set  about  it  as  soon  as  dinner's 
over." 

Here  the  politic  Mr.  Barnabas  looked  round  with  an 
anxious  questioning  of  the  eye,  which  Colonel  Sharpc  un 
derstood. 

•'  Ah  !  dinner  —  I  had  not  thought  of  that,  but  it  must  be 
ready.  Of  course,  you  will  stay  and  dine  with  me." 

•*  Why,  yes  —  though  I  have  spine  famous  mutton-chops 
awaiting  me  at  home." 

"  Mine  are  doubtlessly  as  good." 

We  shall  leave  the  friends  to  their  pottage,  without  any 
ymecessary  inquiry  into  the  degree  of  appetite  which  they 
severally  brought  to  its  discussion.  It  may  not  be  imper 
tinent,  however,  to  intimate,  as  a  mere  probability,  that 
Mr.  Barnabas,  in  the  discussion  of  the  affair,  was  the  most 
able  analyst  of  the  two.  The  digestion  of  Colonel  Sharpc 
was,  at  this  period,  none  of  the  best.  We  have  said  as 
much  before. 

For  that  matter,  neither  was  Beauchampe's.  The  return 
of  Covington,  with  the  wholly  unexpected  refusal  of  Colonel 
Sharpe  to  meet  and  give  him  redress,  utterly  confounded 
him.  Of  course,  he  had  the  usual  remedies.  There  was 
the  poster — which  may  be  termed  a  modern  letter  of  credit 
—  a  sort  of  certificate  of  character,  in  one  sense  —  carrying 
with  it  some  such  moral  odor  as,  in  the  physical  world,  is 
communicated  by  the  whizzing  of  a  pullet's  egg,  addled  in 
June,  directed  at  the  lantern  visage  of  a  long  man,  honored 
with  a  high  place  in  the  public  eye,  though  scarcely  at  ease 
(because  of  his  modesty),  in  the  precious  circumference  of 
the  pillory. 

Beauchampe's  friend  was  bound  to  post  Colonel  Sharpe. 
Bcauchampe  himself  had  the  privilege  of  obliterating  his 
shame,  by  making  certain  cancclli  on  the  back  of  the 


PROGRESS   OP   PASSION.  317 

wrong-doer,  with  the  skin  of  a  larger  but  less  respectable 
animal. 

But  were  these  remedies  to  satisfy  Beauchampe  ?  The 
cowskin  might  draw  blood  from  the  back  of  his  enemy  ;  but 
was  that  the  blood  which  he  had  sworn  to  draw  ?  Ilis  oath ! 
his  oath!  that  was  the  difficulty!  The  refusal  of  Colonel 
Sharpe  to  meet  him  in  personal  combat  left  his  oath  unol>- 
literated  —  uncomplied  with.  The  young  man  was  bewil 
dered  by  his  rage  and  disappointment.  This  was  an  unan 
ticipated  dilemma. 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  Covington  ?" 

"  Post  him,  at  the  courthouse,  jail,  and  every  hotel  in 
town." 

"  Post  him  — and  what's  the  good  of  that?" 

"  You  disgrace  him  for  ever!" 

"  That  will  not  answer — that  is  nothing!" 

"  You  can  go  further.     Horsewhip  him —  cowskin  him- 
cut  his  back  to  ribands,  whenever  you  meet  him  in  the  open 
thoroughfare !" 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  I  would  do  so  ?" 

"  I  did !" 

"  It  did  not  move  him  ?     What  said  he  then  ?" 

"  Still  the  same !  He  would  not  fight  you — could  not 
lift  weapon  against  your  life." 

"The  villain!  —  the  black-hearted,  base,  miserable  vil 
lain  ?  Covington,  you  will  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Surely  !  You  mean  to  post  him,  or  cowhide  him — or 
both  ?" 

"  No,  no !  That's  not  what  I  mean.  I  must  have  his 
blood— his  life!" 

"  That's  quite  another  matter,  Beauchampe.  I  do  not 
see  that  you  can  do  more  than  I  have  told  you.  He  is  a 
coward :  you  must  proclaim  him  as  such.  Your  poster 
does  that.  lie  is  a  villain  —  has  wronged  you.  You  will 
punish  him  for  the  wrong.  Your  horsewhip  does  that ! 
You  can  do  no  more,  Beauchampe." 


818  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Ay,  but  I  must,  fovington.  Your  poster  is  nothing, 
and  the  whip  is  nothing.  I  am  sworn  to  take  his  life  or 
lose  my  own !" 

"  I  can  do  no  more  than  I  have  told  you.  I  will  back 
you  to  this  extent  —  no  further." 

"  I  can  force  him  to  fight  me,"  said  Beauchampe. 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  By  assaulting  him  with  my  weapon,  after  offering  him 
another." 

"  How,  if  he  refuses  to  receive  it  ?" 

"  He  can  not — surely  —  he  will  not  refuse." 

"  lie  will !  I  tell  you,  he  will  refuse.  The  man  is  ut 
terly  frightened.  I  never  witnessed  such  unequivocal  signs 
of  cowardice  in  any  man." 

"  Then  is  he  wonderfully  changed.1' 

A  servant  entered  at  this  moment,  and  handed  Beau 
champe  a  letter.  It  was  from  his  wife.  Its  contents  were 
brief:  - 

.  ..."  I  do  not  hear  from  you,  Beauchampe — I  do  not 
see  you.  You  were  to  have  returned  yesterday.  Come 
to  me.  Let  me  see  you  once  more.  I  tremble  for  your 
safety/'  .... 

The  traces  of  an  agony  which  the  words  did  not  express 
were  clearly  shown  in  the  irregular,  sharp  lines  of  the 
epistle. 

"  I  will  go  to  her  at  once.  I  will  meet  you  to-morrow, 
Coviugton,  when  we  will  discuss  this  matter  further." 

"  The  sooner  you  take  the  steps  1  propose,  the  better," 
said  Covington.  "  The  delay  of  a  day  to  post  him,  is, 
perhaps,  nothing ;  but  you  must  not  permit  the  lapse  of 
more." 

u  I  shall  not  post  him,  Coviugton.  That  would  seem  to 
mock  my  vengeance,  and  to  preclude  it.  No,  no !  posting 
will  not  do.  The  scourging  may ;  but  even  that  does  not 
satisfy  me  now.  To-morrow — we  shall  meet  to-morrow.** 


PROGRESS    OP    PASSION  319 

Let  us  go  with  the  husband  and  rejoin  Mrs.  Beauchampe. 
A  week  had  wrought  great  changes  in  her  appearance. 
Her  eyes  have  sunken,  and  the  glazed  intensity  of  their 
stare  is  almost  that  of  madness.  Her  voice  is  slow  —  subdued 
almost  to  a  whisper. 

"  It  is  not  done  !"  she  said,  her  lip  touching  his  ear — 
her  hands  clasping  his  convulsively. 

"  No  !  the  miserable  wretch  refuses  to  fight  with  me." 
She  recoiled  as  she  exclaimed  — 

"  And  did  you  expect  that  he  would  fight  you  ?  Did  you 
look  for  manhood  or  manly  courage  at  his  hands  ?" 

u  Ay,  but  he  shall  meet  me!"  exclaimed  Beauchampe, 
who  perceived,  in  this  short  sentence,  the  true  character  of 
the  duty  which  lay  before  him.  "  I  will  find  him,  at  least, 
and  you  shall  be  avenged  !  He  shall  not  escape  me  longer 
His  blood  or  mine." 

"  Stay  !  go  not,  Beauchampe  !  Risk  nothing.  Let  me 
be  the  victim  still.  Your  life  is  precious  to  me — more 
precious  than  my  own  name.  Why  should  you  forfeit  sta 
tion,  pride,  peace,  safety  —  everything  for  me  ?  Leave  me, 
dear  Beauchampe  —  leave  me  to  my  shame — leave  me  to 
despair !" 

"  Never !  never !  You  are  my  life.  Losing  you  I  lose 
more  than  life  —  all  that  can  make  it  precious  !  I  will  not 
lose  you.  Whatever  happens,  you  are  mine  to  the  last." 

"  To  the  last,  Beauchampe — thine  —  only  thine-— to  the 
last — the  last  —  the  last !" 

She  sunk  into  his  arms.  He  pressed  his  lips  upon  hers, 
and  drawing  the  dirk  from  his  bosom,  he  elevated  it  above 
ner  head,  while  he  mentally  renewed  his  oath  of  retribution. 
This  done,  he  released  her  from  his  grasp,  placed  her  in  a 
seat,  and,  once  more,  pressing  his  lips  to  hers,  he  darted 
from  the  dwelling.  In  a  few  seconds  more  the  sound  of  his 
horse's  feet  were  heard,  and  she  started  from  her  seat,  and 
from  the  stupor  which  seemed  to  possess  her  faculties.  She 
hurried  to  the  window.  He  had  disappeared. 


?>20  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  He  is  gone !"  she  exclaimed,  pressing  her  hand  upon 
her  forehead,  "  He  is  gone  !  gone  for  what  ?  Ha !  I  have 
sent  him.  I  have  sent  him  on  this  bloody  work.  Oh! 
surely  it  is  madness  that  moves  me  thus  !  It  must  be  mad 
ness.  Why  should  he  murder  Alfred  Stevens  ?  What  good 
will  come  of  it  ?  What  safety  ?  What-  But  why  should 
he  not?  Are  we  never  to  be  free?  Is  lie  to  thrust  him 
self  into  our  homes  for  ever  —  to  baffle  our  hopes  —  destroy 
our  peace  —  point  his  exulting  finger  to  the  hills  of  Charlc- 
mont,  and  cry  aloud,  '  Remember  —  there'  ?  No  !  better  lie 
should  die,  and  we  should  all  die  !  Strike  him,  Beau- 
champe  !  Strike  and  fear  nothing  !  Strike  deep  !  Strike 
to  the  very  heart — strike  !  strike  !  strike  !" 

Why  should  we  look  longer  on  this  mournful  spectacle. 
Yet  the  world  will  not  willingly  account  this  madness.  It 
matters  not  greatly  by  what  name  you  call  a  passion  which 
has  broken  bounds,  and  disdains  the  right  angles  of  con 
vention.  Let  us  leave  the  wife  for  the  husband. 


THE    AVENGER. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

THE    AVENGER. 

Beauchampe  any  more  sane — we  should  phrase  it 
otherwise  —  was  he  any  less  mad  than  his  wife  ? 

Perhaps  he  was  more  so.  The  simple  inquiry  which 
Mrs.  Beauchampe  had  made,  when  he  told  her  that  Sharpe 
refused  to  fight  him,  had  opened  his  eyes  to  all  the  terrible 
responsibility  to  which  his  unhappy  oath  had  subjected  him. 
When  he  had  pledged  himself  to  take  the  life  of  her  be 
trayer,  he  had  naturally  concluded  that  this  pledge  implied 
nothing  more  than  the  resolution  to  meet  with  his  enemy  in 
the  duel.  That  a  Kentucky  gentleman  should  shrink  from 
such  an  issue  did  not  for  a  moment  enter  his  thoughts ;  and 
it  is  not  improbable  but  that,  if  he  could  have  conjectured 
this  possibility,  he  had  not  so  readily  yielded  to  the  condi 
tion  which  she  had  coupled  with  her  consent  to  be  his  wife. 

But,  after  this,  when  in  his  own  house,  and  under  the 
garb  of  friendship,  Colonel  Sharpe  labored  to  repeat  hi? 
crime,  still  less  could  he  have  believed  it  possible  that  the 
criminal  would  refuse  the  only  mode  of  atonement,  which, 


according  to  the  practices  of  that  society  to  which  they 
both'were  accustomed,  was  left  within  his  power  to  make. 
Had  he  apprehended  this,  he  would  have  chosen  the  most 
direct  mode  of  vengeance  —  such  as  the  social  sense  every 
where  would  have  justified  —  and  put  the  offender  to  death 
upoi)  the  very  hearth  which  he  had  striven  to  dishonor* 


y 


#'22  BEAUCHAMPE. 

That  he  had  not  done  so,  was  now  his  topic  of  self-reproach 
An  idea,  whether  true  or  false,  of  what  was  due  to  a  guest, 
had  compelled   him  to  forbear,  and  to  send  the  criminal 
forth,   with  every   opportunity  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
penalties  which  his  offences  had  incurred. 

Still,  up  to  this  moment,  he  had  not  contemplated  the 
necessity  of  lifting  his  weapon  except  on  equal  terms,  with 
the  enemy  whose  life  he  sought.  In  fair  fight  he  had  no 
hesitation  at  this  ;  but,  as  a  murderer,  to  strike  the  unde 
fended  bosom  —  however  criminal  ;  however  deserving  of 
death  —  was  a  view  of  the  case  equally  unexpected  and 
painful.  It  was  one  for  which  his  previous  reflections  had 
not  prepared  him  ;  and,  the  excitement  under  which  he 
labored  in  consequence,  was  one,  that,  if  it  did  not  madden 
him  deprived  him  at  least  of  all  wholesome  powers  of  re 
flection. 

While  he  rode  to  Frankfort,  he  went  as  one  in  a  cloud. 
He  saw  nothing  10  the  right  or  the  left.  The  farmer,  his 
neighbor,  spoke  to  him,  but  he  only  turned  as  if  impatient 
at  some  interruption,  but,  without  answering,  put  spurs 
again  to  the  flanks  of  his  horse,  and  darted  off  with  a  wilder 
speed  than  ever.  An  instinct,  rather  than  a  purpose,  when 
he  reached  Frankfort,  carried  him  to  the  lodgings  of  his 
friend  Covington. 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  demanded  the  latter. 

"Kill  him  —  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done !" 

"  My  dear  Beauchampe  —  you  must  not  think  of  such  a 
thing." 

"  Ay,  but  I  must :  why  should  I  not  ?  Tell  me  that. 
Shall  such  a  monster  live  ?"" 

"  There  are  good  reasons  why  you  should  not  kill  him. 
If  you  do,  unless  in  very  fair  fight,  you  will  not  only  be 
tried,  but  found  guilty  of  the  murder." 

"I  know  notjhati Ills-crime — " 

"  Deserves  death  and  should  have  found  it  at  the  time ! 
Had  you  put  him  to  donil;  when  he  was  in  your  house,  and 


THE    AVENGER.  325 

made  the  true  cause  known,  tb.o  jury  must  have  justified 
you;  but  you  allowed  the  moment  of  provocation  to  pass :' 

"  Such  a  moment  can  not  pass." 

"  Ay,  but  it  can  and  does !  Time,  they  say,  cools  the 
blood  !" 

"  Nonsense  !  When  every  additional  moment  of  thought 
adds  to  the  fever." 

"They  reason  otherwise.  Nay,  more — just  now  that 
feeling  of  party  runs  too  high.  Already,  they  have  trum 
peted  it  about  that  Calvert  sought  to  kill  Sliarpe  on  the 
score  of  his  attachment  to  Desha.  They  made  the  grounds 
of  that  affair  political,  when,  it  seems  to  have  been  purely 
your  own ;  and  if  you  should  attempt  and  succeed  in  such 
a  thing,  he  would  be  considered  a  martyr  to  the  party,  and 
you  would  inevitably  become  its  victim." 

"  Covington,  do  you  think  that  I  am  discouraged  by  this  ? 
Do  you  suppose  I  fear  death  ?  No  !  If  the  gallows  were 
already  raised  —  if  the  executioner  stood  by — if  I  saw  the 
felon-cart,  and  the  gloating  throng  around,  gathered  to  be 
hold  my  agonies,  I  would  still  strike,  strike  fatally,  and 
without  fear  !" 

"  I  know  you  brave,  Beauchampe ;  but  such  a  death 
might  well  appal  the  bravest  man  !" 

"  It  does  not  appal  me.  Understand  me.  Covington,  I 
must  slay  this  man !" 

"  J  can  not  understand  you,  Beauchampe.  As  your  friend 
i  will  not.  I  counsel  you  against  the  deed.  I  counsel  you 
purely  with  regard  to  your  own  safety." 

•4  Ab  a  friend,  would  you  have  me  live  dishonored  ?" 

"  No  !  I  have  already  counselled  you  how  to  transfer  tho 
dishonor  from  your  shoulders  to  his.  Denounce  him  for  his 
crime  —  disgrace  him  by  the  scourge  !" 

u  No  !  no  !  Covington  —  this  is  no  redress  —  no  remedy. 
OIF-  blood  only  can  wipe  out  that  shame." 

;4 1  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Beauchampe." 

"Will  7011  desert  me  ?" 


324  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Not  if  you  adopt  the  "usual  mode.  Take  your  horse 
whip,  arm  yourself ;  give  Sharpe  notice  to  prepare  ;  and  it 
is  not  impossible,  then,  that  he  will  be  armed,  and  the  ren 
contre  may  be  as  fatal  as  you  could  desire  it.  I  am  ready 
for  you  to  this  extent." 

"  Be  it  so,  then  !  Believe  me,  Coving-ton,  I  would  rather 
a,  thousand  times  risk  my  own  life  than  be  compelled  to 
take  his  without  resistance.  But  understand  one  tiling. 
lie  or  I  must  perish !  We  can  not  both  survive." 

"I  will  strive  to  bring  it  about,"  said  the  other;  and, 
urged  by  the  impatience  of  Beauchampe,  lie  proceeded,  a 
second  time,  to  give  Colonel  Sharpe  the  necessary  no 
tice. 

jiut  Sharpe  was  not  to  be  found.  lie  was  denied  at  his 
own  dwelling  as  in  town  ;  and  Covington  took  the  way  to 
the  house  of  his  arch-vassal  Mr.  Barnabas.  The  latter 
gentlema^  confirmed  the  intelligence.  He  stated,  not  only 
that  Sharpe  had  left  town,  but  had  proceeded  to  Bowling- 
Green. 

Covington  did  not  conceal  his  object.  '  Knowing  the  char 
acter  of  Barnabas,  and  his  relation  to  Sharpe,  he  addressed 
himself  to  the  fears  of  both. 

"  Mr.  Barnabas,  it  will  be  utterly  impossible  for  Colonel 
Sharpe  to  avoid  this  affair.  Beauchampe  will  force  it  upon 
him.  He  will  degrade  him  daily  in  the  streets  of  Frank 
fort  :  he  will  brand  him  with  the  whip  in  the  sight  of  tne 
people.  You  know  the  effect  of  this  upon  a  man's  charac 
ter  and  position." 

"Certainly,  sir;  but,  Mr.  Covington,  Mr.  Beauchauipt 
will  do  so  at  his  peril." 

<:To  be  sure  —  he  knows  that;  but.  with  such  wrong;- 
as  Mr.  Beauchampe  has  had  to  sustain,  he  knows  no  peril 
He  will  certainly  do  what  I  tell  you." 

"But,  Mr.  Covington — iny   dear  sir  —  can  not  thus  be 
avoided  ?     Is  there  no  other  remedy  ':     Will  i".o  j,j/u^g>  - 
uo  atonement  of  Colonel  Sharpe  —  suppose  &,  written,  %poi 


THE  AVENGER.  326 

ogy—  most  humble  and  penitent  — to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beau- 
cnanipe — " 

"  Impossible  !  How  could  you  think  that  such  an  apol 
ogy  could  atone  for  such  an  offence?  —  first,  the  seduc 
tion  of  this  lady,  while  yet  unmarried ;  and,  next,  the 
abominable  renewal  of  the  attempt  when  she  had  become  a 
v'ifo !" 

••  But  nobody  believes  this,  Mr.  Covington.  It  is  gen 
erally  understood  that  the  first  offence  is  the  only  one  to 
be  laid  at  TSharpe's  door,  and  this  is  to  be  urged  only 
on  political  grounds.  Beauchampe  supported  Tompkins 
against  Desha,  and  the  friends  of  Tompkins  revive  this 
stale  offence  only  to  discredit  Sharpe  as  the  friend  of  the 
former." 

"  Mr.  Barnabas,  you  know  better.  You  know  that  Beau 
champe  was  the  friend  of  Sharpe,  and  spoke  against  Cal- 
vert  in  his  defence.  We  also  know,  as  well  as  you,  that 
Calvert  and  Sharpe  fought  on  account  of  this  very  lady ; 
though  Desha's  friends  have  contrived  to  make  it  appeal- 
that  the  combat  had  a  political  origin." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Covington,  my  knowledge  is  one  thing  — 
that  of  the  people  another.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  it  is 
very  generally  believed  that  the  true  cause  of  the  affair  is 
political." 

"  And  how  has  this  general  knowledge  been  obtained, 
Mr.  Barnabas  ?"  remarked  Covington  rather  sternly.  "  As 
the  friend  of  Beauchampe,  and  the  only  one  to  whom  he  has 
confided  his  feelings  and  wishes,  I  can  answer  for  it  that 
110  publicity  has  been  given  to  this  affair  by  us." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  JJarnabas,  hurriedly,  "  how  the 
report  has  got  abroad.  I  only  know  that  it  is  very  gen 
eral." 

Mr.  Covington  rose  to  depart. 

"Let  me,  before  leaving  you,  Mr.  Barnabas,  advise  you, 
as  one  of  the  nearest  friends  of  Colonel  Sharpe,  what  he  is 
to  expect.  Mr.  Beauchampe  will  take  the  road  of  him,  and 


326  BEAUCHAMPE. 

will  horsewhip  him  through  the  streets  of  FrarVfort  on  the 
first  occasion  —  nay, on  every  occasion  —  till  he  is  prepared 
to  fight  him.     I  am  free  to  add,  for  the  benefit  of  any  of 
Colonel  Sharpe's  friends,  that  I  will  accompany  him  whsn 
ever  he  proposes  to  make  this  attempt." 

And,  with  this  knightly  intimation,  Mr.  Covington  took 
his  departure. 

When  Beauchampc  heard  that  Sharpe  had  left  town.  ar>d 
gone  to  Bowling-Green,  he  immediately  jumped  on  his  horse 
and  went  off  in  the  same  direction. 

That  very  afternoon,  Mr.  Barnabas  sat  with  his  friend 
Colonel  Sharpe  over  a  bottle,  and  at  the  town-house  of  the 
latter !  It  had  been  a  falsehood  by  which  Bcauchampe  was 
sent  on  a  wild-goose  chase  into  the  country.  The  object 
was  to  gain  time,  so  as  to  enable  the  friends  of  both  par 
ties,  or  rather  the  friends  of  the  criminal,  who  were  mem 
bers  of  the  club,  to  interpose  and  effect  an  arrangement  of 
the  affair,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible  ;  and,  in  the  natural 
gratification  which  Sharpe  felt  that  the  danger  was  parried, 
though  for  a  moment  only,  the  spirits  of  the  criminal  rose 
into  vivacity.  The  two  made  themselves  merry  with  the 
unfruitful  journey  which  the  avenger  was  making  ;  not  con 
sidering  the  effect  of  such  manoeuvring  upon  a  temper  so 
excitable,  nor  allowing  for  the  accumulation  of  those  pas 
sions  which,  as  they  can  not  sleep,  and  can  not  be  subdued, 
necessarily  become  more  powerful  in  proportion  to  the  de 
lay  in  their  utterance,  and  the  restraints  to  which  they  are 
subjected. 

Of  course,  Mr.  Barnabas  made  a  full  report  to  his  pri: 
cipal  of  all  that  Covington  had  told  him.  There  was  little 
in  this  report  to  please  the  offender ;  but  there  were  other 
tidings  which  were  more  gratifying.  The  members  of  the 
club  were  busy  to  prevent  the  meeting.  Mr.  Barnabas  hid 
already  sent  a  judicious  and  veteran  politician  to  see  Cov 
ington  ;  and,  having  a  great  faith  himself  in  the  powers  of 
the  persons  lie  had  employed  t-j  bring  the  matter  to  a 


THE   AVENGER.  327 

peaceable  adjustment,  he  had  infused  a  certain  portion  of 
his  own  faith  into  the  breast  of  his  superior. 

And  the  bowl  went  round  merrily ;  and  the  hearts  of  the 
twain  were  lifted  up,  for,  in  their  political  transactions, 
there  was  much  that  had  taken  place  of  a  character  to  give 
both  of  them  positive  gratification.  And  so  the  evening 
passed  until  about  eight  o'clock,  when  Mr.  Barnabas  sud 
denly  recollected  that  lie  had  made  an  appointment  witli 
some  gentleman  which  required  his  immediate  departure. 
Sharpe  was  unwilling  to  lose  him,  and  Uis  spirits  sunk  with 
the  departure  of  his  friend ;  nor  were  they  much  enlivened 
by  the  entrance  of  a  lady,  in  whose  meek,  sad  countenance 
might  be  read  the  history  of  an  unloved,  neglected,  but  un 
complaining  wife.  He  did  not  look  up  at  her  approach. 
She  placed  herself  in  the  seat  which  Mr.  Barnabas  had  left. 

"  You  look  unwell,  Warham.  You  seem  to  have  been 
troubled,  my  husband,"  she  remarked  with  some  hesitation, 
and  in  a  faint  voice.  "  Is  anything  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing  which  you  can  help,  Mrs.  Sharpe,"  he  replied 
in  cold  and  repelling  accents,  crossing  his  legs,  and  half 
wheeling  his  chair  about  so  as  to  turn  his  back  upon  her. 
She  was  silenced,  and  looked  at  him  with  an  eye  full  of  a  sad 
reproach  and  a  lasting  disappointment.  No  further  words 
passed  between  them,  and  a  few  moments  only  elapsed 
when  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  outer  entrance. 

"  Leave  the  room,"  he  said ;  fc<  I  suppose  it  is  Barnabas 
returned.  I  have  private  business  with  him.  You  had 
better  go  to  bed." 

She  rose  meekly,  and  did  as  she  was  commanded.  He 
also  rose,  and  went  to  the  door. 

fc'  Who's  that  —  Barnabas  ?"  he  demanded,  while  opening 
tho  door. 

He  was  answered  indistinctly;  but  he  fancied  that  the 
words  were  in  the  affirmative,  and  the  visitor  darted  in  the 
moment  the  door  was  opened.  The  passage-way  being 
dark,  he  could  not  distinguish  the  person  of  the  stranger 


328  BEAUCHAMPE. 

except  to  discover  that  it  was  not  the  man  whom  he  er 
pected.  But  this  discovery  was  made  almost  in  the  very 
instant  when  the  intruder  entered,  and  with  it  came  certain 
apprehensions  of  danger,  which,  however  vague,  yet  startled 
and  distressed  him.  Under  their  influence  he  receded  Ire  in 
the  entrance,  moving  backward  with  his  face  to  the  stran 
ger,  till  he  re-entered  the  sitting-apartment.  The  moment 
that  the  light  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  visitor,  his  knees 
knocked  against  one  another.  It  was  Beauchampe. 

"  Beauchampe  !"  he  involuntarily  exclaimed,  with  a  hol 
low  voice,  while  his  dilated  eyes  regarded  the  fierce,  wild 
aspect  of  the  visiter. 

"  Ay,  Beauchampe!"  were  the  echoed  tones  of- the  other 
—  tones  almost  stifled  in  the  deep  intensity  of  mood  with 
which  they  were  spoken  —  tones  low,  but  deep,  like  those 
of  some  dull  convent-bell,  echoing  at  midnight  along  the 
gray  rocks  and  heights  of  some  half-deserted  land !  As 
deep  and  soul-thrilling  as  would  be  such  sounds  upon  the 
ear  of  some  wanderer,  unconscious  of  any  neighborhood, 
did  they  fall  upon  the  sudden  sense  of  that  criminal.  His 
courage  instantly  failed  him.  His  knees  smote  each  other  ; 
his  tongue  clove  to  his  mouth  ;  he  had  strength  enough  only 
to  recede  as  if  with  the  instinct  of  flight.  Beauchampe' 
caught  his  arm. 

"You  can  not  fly  —  you  must  stay!  My  business  will 
sufier  no  further  postponement." 

Beauchampe  forced  him  into  a  chair. 

u  What  is  the  matter,  Beauchampe  ?  what  do  you  moan 
to  do  ?"  gasped  the  trembling  criminal. 

"  Docs  not  your  guilty  soul  tell  you  what  I  should  do?" 
was  the  stern  demand. 

"  I  am  guilty  !"  was  the  half-choking  answer. 

"  Ay  !  but  the  confession  alone  will  avail  nothi^r.  You 
must  atone  for  your  guilt !" 

"  On  my  knee?.  Bcauchampc  ?" 

*'  No  !  —  with  your  blood  !" 


THE   AVENGER.  329 

"  Spare  ine,  Beauchampe  !  oh  !  spare  my  life.  Do  not 
murder  me  —  for  I  can  not  tight  you  on  account  of  that  in 
jured  woman  !" 

"This  whining  will  not- answer,  Colonel  Sharpe.  You 
must  fight  me.  I  have  brought  weapons  for  both.  Choose!" 

The  speaker  threw  two  dirks  upon  the  floor  at  the  feet 
of  the  criminal,  while  he  stood  back  proudly. 

"  Choose  !"  he  repeated,  pointing  to  the. weapons. 

But  the  latter,  though  rising,  so  far  from  availing  himself 
of  the  privilege,  made  an  effort  to  pass- his  enemy  and  es 
cape  from  the  room.  But  the  prompt  arm  of  Beauchampe 
arrested  him  and  threw  him  back  with  some  force  toward 
the  corner  of  the  apartment. 

"  Colonel  Sharpe,  you  can  not  escape  me.  The  falsehood 
of  your  friend,  which  sent  me  from  the  city,  has  resolved 
me  to  suffer  no  more  delay  of  justice.  Will  you  fight  me  ? 
Choose  of  the  weapons  at  your  feet." 

"I  can  not!  spare  me,  Beauchampe  —  my  dear  friend  — 
for  the  past — in  consideration  of  what  we  have  been  to 
each  other  —  spare  my  life  !" 

"  You  thought  not  of  this,  villain,  when,  in  the  insolence 
of  your  heart,  you  dared  to  bring  your  lust  into  my  dwel 
ling." 

"  Beauchampe,  hear  me  for  your  own  sake,  hear  me." 

"  Speak  !  speak  briefly.     I  am  in  no  mood  to  trifle." 

"  My  crime  was  that  of  a  young  man— 

"  Stay  !  your  crime  was  the  invasion  of  my  family —  of 
its  peace." 

"  Ah  !  —  that  was  a  crime  —  if  it  were  so." 

"  What,  do  you  mean  to  deny  ?  Dare  you  to  impute  false 
hood  to  my  wife  ?" 

"  Beanchampe,  she  is  your  wife;  and  for  this  reason,  I 
will  not  say,  what  I  might  say,  but— 

4/  Oh  !  speak  all  —  speak  all!  I  am  curious  to  see  by 
what  new  invention  of  villany  you  hope  to  deceive  me." 

''  No  vi'J.any— -co  invention, Beauchampe  —  1  speak  onl> 


330  BEAUCHAMPE. 

the  solemn  truth.     Before  God,  I  assure  you  it  is  the  truth 
only  which  I  will  deliver." 

"  You  swear  ?"' 

"  Solemnly." 

*•  Speak,  then  —  but  take  up  the  dirk." 

<k  No  !    If  you  will  but  hear  me,  I  do  not  fear  to  con 
viuce  you  that  there  needs  none  either  in  your  hands  or 
mine." 

"  You  are  a  good  lawyer,  keen,  quick-witted,  and  verv 
loirical  ;  but  it  will  task  better  wits  than  yours  to  alter  my 
faith  that  you  are  a  villain,  and  that  you  shall  perish  by 
this  hand  of  mine." 

Beauchampc  stooped  and  possessed  himself  of  one  of 
the  weapons. 

"  Speak  now  !  what  have  you  to  say  ?  Remember  Col 
onel  Sharpe,  you  have  not  only  summoned  God  to  witness 
your  truth,  but  you  may  be  summoned  in  a  few  moments  to 
his  presence  to  answer  for  your  falsehood.  I  am  sent  here, 
solemnly  sworn,  to  take  your  life !" 

"  But  only  because  you  believed  me  a  criminal  in  respects 
in  which  I  am  innocent.  If  I  show  you  that  I  never  ap 
proached  Mrs.  Beauchampc,  while  your  wife,  except  with 
the  respect  due  to  herself  and  you — " 

"  Liar  !  but  you  can  not  show  me  that !  I  tell  you,  I 
believe  what  she  has  told  me.  I  know  her  truth  and  your 
falsehood." 

"  She  is  prejudiced,  my  dear  friend.     She  hates  me — " 

ki  And  with  good  reason:  but  hate  you  as  she  may,  she 
speaks,  and  can  speak,  nothing  in  your  disparagement  bat 
the  truth." 

"  She  has  misunderstood  —  mistaken  mo,  in  what  I  said,  * 

"  Stay  !"  approaching  him.  u  Stay  !  do  not  deceive  your 
self,  Colonel  Sharpe  :  you  can  not  deceive  me.  She  has 
detailed  the  whole  of  your  wild  overtures  —  the  very  words 
of  shame  and  guilt,  and  villanous  baseness  which  you  em 
ployed." 


THE    A7RNGER.  331 

"  Ecauchiinpe,  my  dear  friend,  arc  you  sure  that  she  has 
told  you  all  ?" 

Here  the  criminal  approached  with  extended  hand,  while 
he  assumed  a  look,  of  mysterious  meaning,  which  left  some 
thing  for  the  other  to  anticipate. 

"  Sure  that  she  told  me  all  ?  Ay  I  I  am  sure !  What 
remains  ?  Speak  out,  and  leave  nothing  to  these  smooth, 
cunning  faces.  Speak  out,  while  the  time  is  left  you." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  of  our  first  meeting  in  Charlemont  ?" 

"Ay,  did  she  —  that!  everything!" 

"I  seek  not  to  excuse  my  crime,  there,  Beauchampe  — 
but  that  was  not  a  crime  against  you  !  I  did  not  know  yot 
t.her  I  did  not  then  fancy  that  you  would  ever  bo  so  *}• 
lied  to—" 

"  Cease  that,  and  say  what  you  deem  needful." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  of  the  child  ?" 

"  Child !  what  child  ?"  demanded  Beauchampe,  with  a 
start  of  surprise. 

The  face  of  Sharpe  put  on  a  look  of  exultation.  lie  felt 
that  he  had  gained  a  point. 

"  Ah  !  ha  !  I  could  have  sworn  that  she  did  not  tell  you 
all  /" 

The  eyes  of  Beauchampe  glared  more  fiercely,  and  the 
convulsive  twitching  of  the  hand  which  held  the  dagger, 
and  the  quivering  of  his  lip,  might  have  warned  his  com 
panion  of  the  danger  which  he  incurred  of  trifling  with  him 
longer. 

But  Sharpens  policy  was  to  induce  the  suspicions  of 
Beauchampe  in  relation  to  his  wife.  lie  fancied,  from  the 
unqualified  astonishment  which  appeared  in  the  lattcr's 
face,  as  he  spoke  of  the  child,  that  he  had  secured  a  largo 
foothold  in  this  respect,  for  it  was  very  clear  that  Mrs. 
Beauchampe,  while  relating  everything  of  any  substantial 
importance  which  concerned  herself,  had  evidently  omitted 
that  portion  of  the  narrative  which  concerned  the  uifhappy 
and  short-lived  offspring  of  her  guilty  error. 


?32  ;E\UCHAMPE. 

It  does  not  i>eed  to  inquire  why  she  had  forborne  to  in 
clude  this  particular  in  her  statement  to  her  husband. 
There  may  have  been  some  superior  pang  in  the  recollec 
tion  of  that  gloomy  period  which  had  follov/ed  her  fall ;  and 
it  was  not  necessary  to  the  frank  confession  which  she  had 
freely  offered  of  her  guilt. 

But,  though  unimportant.  Colonel  Sharpevery  well  knew, 
that  there  is  a  danger  in  the  suppression  of  any  fact,  in  a 
case  like  this,  where  the  relations  are  so  nice  and  sensitive, 
which  13  like  to  involve  an  appearance  of  guilt,  and  to  lead 
to  .9  presumption.  Like  an  experienced  practitioner  at 
tht  3g!oi!p.  he  deemed  it  important  to  dwell  upon  this  par- 
t; ;...,. 

"  1  could  have  sworn  !"  he  repeated,  "  that  she  had  not 
told  you  of  that,  child.  "Ah!  my  dear  friend,  spare  me 
the  necessity  of  telling  you  what  she  has  forborne.  She  is 
now  your  wife.  Her  reputation  is  yours  —  her  shame 
would  be  yours  also.  Believe  me,  I  repent  of  all  I  have 
done  —  for  your  sake,  for  hers  —  believe  me,  moreover, 
when  I  assure  you  that  she  mistook  my  language,  when  she 
fancied  that  I  meant  indignity  in  what  I  said  lately  in  your 
house." 

"  But  /  could  not  mistake  that,  Colonel  Sharpe." 

"  No !  but  did  you  hear  it  rightly  reported  ?" 

/'Ay!  she  would  not  deceive  me.  You  labor  in  vain. 
Tin?  dirty  work  is  easy  with  you  ;  but  it  does  not  blind 
me  !  Colonel  Sharpe,  what  child  is  this  that  you  speak 
of?" 

"  Her  child,  to  be  sure !" 

"Her  child!     Had  she  a  child  ?" 

"  To  bo  sure  she  had.  Ask  her :  she  will  not  deny  it, 
peril  arc.  and  if  she  does,  I  can  prove  it." 

"Ecr  child  !—  and  yours  ?" 

"  No  —  no  !     No  child  of  mine  !" 

:t  ITS  !  not  your  child  !     Whose  — whose  then  ?" 

'•'  (TO  to  her,  my  dcnr  friend  !     Ask  her  of  that  child.'* 


THE    AVENGER.  333 

"  Where  is  the  child  ?» 

«  Dead !" 

"  Dead  !  well !  what  of  it  then  ?" 

"Go  to  her  —  ask  her  whose  it  was?  Ah!  my  dear 
Beauchampe,  let  me  say  no  more.  Press  me  no  further  to 
speak.  She  is  your  wife  !" 

The  eye  of  Beauchampe  settled  upon  him  with  a  suddenly- 
composed  but  stony  expression. 

"  Say  all!"  he  said  deliberately.  "  Disburthen  yourself 
of  all !  I  request  it  particularly,  Colonel  Sharpe— nay,  I 
command  it." 

"  My  dear  friend,  Beauchampe,  I  really  would  prefer  not 
—  ah  !  it  is  an  ugly  business.'* 

"  Do  not  trifle,  Colonel  Sharpe  —  speak — you  do  not 
help  your  purpose  by  this  prevarication.  What  do  you 
know  further  of  this  child  ?  It  was  not  yours,  you  say  — 
whose  was  it  then  ?" 

"  It  was  not  mine  !  and  to  say  whose  it  was  is  scarce  so 
easy  a  matter,  but — "  arid  he  drew  nigh  and  whispered  the 
rest  of  the  sentence,  some  three  syllables,  into  the  ears  of 
the  husband. 

The  latter  recoiled.  Uis  face  grew  black,  his  hand 
grasped  the  dagger  with  nervous  rigidity,  and,  while  tho 
look  of  cunning  confidence  mantled  the  face  of  tho  criminal, 
and  before  he  could  recede  from  the  fatal  proximity  to 
which,  in  whispering,  he  had  brought  himself  with  the 
avenger,  the  latter  had  struck.  The  sharp  edge  of  the 
dagger  had  answered  the  shocking  secret — whatever  might 
have  been  its  character  —  and  the  terrible  oath  of  the  hus 
band  was  redeemed  !  —  redeemed  in  a  single  moment,  and 
by  a  single  blow. 

The  wrongs  of  Margaret  Cooper  were  at  last  avenged ! 
But  were  her  sorrows  ended  ? 

How  should  they  bo  ?  The  hand  that  is  stained  with  ha- 
man  blood,  in  whatever  cause  —  the  soul  that  has  prompted 
the  deed  of  blood  —  what  waters  .shall  make  clean  ? 


334  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Vengeance  is  mine  !"  saith  the  Lord  —  meaning  "  mine 
only !"  Wo,  then,  for  tho  guilty  soul  that  usurps  this  sub 
lime  privilege  of  Deity!  It  must  bide  a  dreary  destiny 
before  the  waters  of  heavenly  mercy  shall  flow  to  cleanse 
and  sweeten  it.  We  may  plead  the  madness  of  the  crimi 
nals,  and  this  alone  may  excuse  what  we  are  not  permitted 
to  justify.  Certainly,  they  had  been  stung  to  madness. 
The  very  genius  of  Margaret  Cooper  made  the  transition 
to  madness  easy ! 

But  —  Colonel  Sharpe  fell,  prone  on  his  face,  at  the  feet 
of  the  avenger ! 

A  single  blow  had  slain  him! 


HUE    \ND   CIIY.  S.H/i 


CHAPTER   XXXiV. 

HUE    AND   CRY. 

"  Now  that  we  have  the  food  we  so  have  longed  fbf, 
Let  us  talk  cheerily  i     We'll  think  of  pleasures 
That  never  shall  grow  surfeit  —  of  joys  of  Death, 
Whose  reign  wraps  earth  in  its  eternal  grasp, 
And  feeds  eternity !     Oh,  we'll  be  joyful  now !" —  Old  Play. 

A  MURDER  in  a  novel,  though  of  very  common  occurrence, 
is  usually  a  matter  of  a  thousand  very  thrilling  minutiae. 
In  the  hands  of  a  score  of  our  modern  romancers,  it  is  sur- 
orising  what  capital  they  make  of  it !  How  it  runs  through 
a  score  of  chapters!  —  admits  of  a  variety  of  details,  de 
scriptions,  commentaries,  and  conjectures !  Take  any  of 
the  great  raconteurs  of  the  European  world — not  forget 
ting  Dumas  and  Reynolds  —  and  see  what  they  will  do  with 
it !  How  they  turn  it  over,  and  twist  it  about,  as  a  sweet 
morsel  under  the  tongue  !  In  either  of  these  hands,  it  be 
comes  one  of  the  most  prolific  sources  of  interest ;  which 
does  not 'end  with  the  knife  or  bludgeon  stroke,  or  bullet- 
Ghot,  but  multiplies  its  relations  the  more  it  is  conned,  and 
will  swallow  up  half  the  pages  of  an  ordinary  duodecimo. 
As  they  unfold  the  long  train  of  consequences,  in  intermi 
nable  recital,  you  are  confounded  at  the  dilating  atmosphere 
cf  the  deed  ;  at  the  long  accumulation  of  dreary  details ; 
the  fact  upon  fact — whether  of  moment  or  value  to  the 
progress,,  cr  net,  is  net  necessary  tc  be  asked  here — which 
grows  out  of  the  crime  en  every  hand.  How  it  spreads,  as 
the  radiating  circles  m  the  water,  from  a  pebble  plunged 


into  -Ihe  lake  .  There  you  see  the  good  old  buticr  or  porter 
of  ihe  household,  or  it  may  be  the  cook  or  hostler—  Saun- 
ders  Maybin,  or  B.ichard  Swopp,  by  name  —  going  forth  at 
dawn,  having  been  troubled  during  the  night  with  sundry 
uneasinesses,  the  consequence  of  a  hearty  supper  of  lobster 
or  gait  cod,  and  suddenly  encountering  a  blood-spot  upon 
the  sward ! 

That  mysterious  blood-spot!-- 

At  the  sight  of  it,  the  said  Saunders  or  Richard  recoils, 
puts  his  finger  to  his  nose  dubitatingly,  shakes  his  noddle 
significantly,  and  mutters  —  quoting  Shakspere  without  a 
consciousness :  ';  This  is  miching  malico  !  It  means  mis- 
chit  f  r 

And.  so  saying,  he  goes  on  nosing — all  nose  from  that 
moment  —  till  he  finds  more/sjgwj  in  the  parlance  of  the 
TJ  dian,  and  is  at  length  conducted,  step  by  step,  till  he 
stumbles  over  the  lopped  members  of  a  human  carcass  jut 
ting  out  from  a  dunghill ! 

Nay,  it  may  not  be  so  easily  found  —  may  require  some 
circuitous  turns  of  the  nose  before  full  discovery ;  and  then 
it  may  not  be  in  a  dunghill  that  it  is  hidden.  It  may  be  in 
the  bushes  or  in  the  sands  ;  but  no  matter  where  :  you  shall 
be  a  whole  summer  day  in  making  the  discovery,  for  our 
authors  will  not  suffer  you  to  lose  a  single  detail  in  the 
progress  ;  and,  by  the  time  the  search  is  ended,  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  you  will  believe  that  your  author  as  well  as 
conductor  has  a  valuable  nose  ! 

Lut,  whatever  the  particulars  of  search  and  discovery, 
you  must  have  'em  all ;  you  will  be  bated  not  a  hair,  not 
an  item,  not  an  atom :  how  many  are  the  drops  of  blood  ; 
how  large  the  puddle  ;  whether  first  seen  on  grass  or  sand  ; 
how  the  body  lies  when  found  ;  what  the  shape  and  size  of 
the  wound  ;  whether  by  a  sharp  or  rusty  blade,  smooth  shil- 
Iclah  or  knotted  hickory :  there  must  be  a  regular  inven 
tory  !  Such  is  equally  crowncr's  quest  and  novelist's  law ! 

And  the  "  crowners  quest"  itself — that  is  always  an 


HUB    AND    CRY.  337 

inquisition  of  rare  susceptibilities,  and  nice  details  and  dis 
criminations  ;  amplifications  of  the  old  case  of  Ophelia,  as 
to  whether  the  woman  went  to  the  water,  or  the  water  went 
to  the  woman !  The  differences  of  vulgar  opinion  ;  the 
array  of  vulgar  prejudices  ;  the  free  use  of  legal  technicali 
ties  ;  and  a  thousand  other  abominable  little  niceties,  that 
ought  to  be  gathered  up  at  a  grasp,  all  spread  out  to  the 
utmost  stretch  —  like  the  shirt  of  Cassar  —  scored  with 
bloody  gashes,  each  having  name  and  number  !  To  crown 
all,  and  to  render  the  "  miching  malico"  more  endurable 
and  desirable,  you  are  always  sure  to  have  some  poor  devil 
of  an  innocent  in  the  way — just  where  he  ought  not  to  be 
—  looking  very  much  like  the  guilty  one,  and  behaving  with 
such  pains-taking  stupidity,  that  nobody  doubts  that  he  is ; 
and  he  is  accordingly  laid  by  the  heels,  and  clapped  up  in 
prison,  to  answer  to  the  crime.  The  genius  of  the  novelist 
then  goes  to  work,  in  right  good  earnest,  to  see  how  he  can 
be  got  out  of  the  darbies !  This  is  the  notable  way  to  re 
late  such  a  history  usually  ;  and  one  might  think  it  a  toler 
ably  good  way,  indeed,  were  it  not  that  most  people  find  it 
abominably  tedious. 

Having  seen,  for  ourselves,  how  Sharpe  was  murdered, 
who  was  the  murderer,  and  how  the  blow  was  struck,  we 
shall  not  fatigue  the  reader  in  showing  how  many  versions 
of  the  affair  got  abroad  among  those  who  were,  of  course, 
more  and  more  positive  in  their  conjectures  in  proportion 
to  the  small  knowledge  which  they  possessed.  We  make 
short  a  story  which,  long  enough  already,  we  apprehend, 
might,  by  an  ingenious  romancer,  be  made  a  great  deal 
longer. 

Suspicion  fell  instantly  on  Beauchampe.  On  whom  else 
should  it  fall  ?  He  had  announced  his  purpose  to  take  the 
life  of  the  criminal ;  and,  wherever  Sharpc's  offence  had  got 
abroad,  people  expected  that  he  would  commit  the  deed. 

In  our  country,  a  great  many  crimes  arc  committed  to 
gratify  public  expectation.  Most  of  our  duels  are  fought 


338  BEAUCHAMPE. 

to  satisfy  the  demands  of  public  opinion  ;  by  which  is  un 
derstood  the  opinions  of  that  little  set,  batch,  or  clique,  of 
which  some  long-nosed  Solomon  —  some  addle-pated  leader 
of  a  score  whose  brains  are  thrice  addled  —  is  the  sapient 
lawgiver  and  head.  Most  of  the  riots  and  mobs  arc  insti 
gated  by  half-witted  journalists,  who  first  goad  the  offender 
10  his  crime,  and,  the  next  day,  rate  him  soundly  for  its 
commission  !  He  who,  in  a  fit  of  safe  valor,  the  day  before, 
taunted  his  neighbor  with  cowardice  for  submitting  to  an 
indignity,  lifts  up  his  holy  hands  with  horror  when  he  hears 
that  the  nose-pulling  is  avenged,  and,  as  a  conscientious 
juryman,  hurries  the  wretch  to  the  halter  who  has  only  fol 
lowed  his  own  suggestions  in  braining  the  assailant  with  his 
bludgeon  I  All  this  is  certainly  very  amusing,  and,  with 
proper  details,  makes  a  murder-paragraph  in  the  newspaper 
which  delights  the  old  ladies  to  as  great  an  extent  as  a 
marriage  does  the  young  ones.  It  produces  that  pleasura 
ble  excitement  which  is  the  mental  brandy  and  tobacco  to 
all  persons  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  breed  —  for  both  of  which 
the  appetite  is  tolerably  equal  in  both  Great  Britain  and 
America. 

In  the  case  of  Beauchampe,  the  "  Hue  and  Cry"  knew, 
by  a  sort  of  conventional  instinct,  exactly  in  what  quarter 
to  turn  its  sagacious  nostrils. 

*4  It  is  Beauchampe  that  has  done  this  !"  was  the  common 

voice,  as  soon  as  the  deed  was  known.     And,  by-the-way, 

when  public  expectation   so  certainly  points  to   the  true 

offender,  it  is  highly  probable  that  it  gave  the  clue  to  the 

,     \offencein  the  first  instance.     It  said  :  "  Do  it !  —  it  ought 

to  be  done !" 

/  Beauchampe  did  not  much  concern  himself  about  the 
'  Hue  and  Cry."  or  even  about  that  great  authority  "  Pub 
lic  Opinion."  He  returned  to  his  own  dwelling;  but  not 
with  the  feet  of  fear  —  not  even  with  those  of  flight.  His 
jcuruey  homc\v;iru  v.  u.s  marked  with  the  deliberation  of  one 
wno  feels  satisfied  liiut  he  Ima  performed  a  duty,  the  neglect 


HUE    AND    CRY.  339 

of  which  had  long  been  burdensome  and  painful  to  his  con 
science. 

It  is,  of  course,  to  be  understood  -that  he  was  laboring 
under  a  degree  of  excitement  which  makes  it  something 
like  an  absurdity  to  talk  of  conscience  at  all.  The  fanati 
cism  which  now  governed  his  feelings,  and  had  sprung  from 
them,  possessed  his  mind  also.  With  the  air  of  one  who 
has  gone  through  a  solemn  and  severe  ordeal,  with  the  feel 
ing  of  a  martyr,  he  presented  himself  before  his'  wife. 

The  deliberation  of  monomania  is  one  of  its  most  re 
markable  features.  It  is  singularly  exemplified  by  one 
portion  of  Beauchampe's  proceedings.  On  leaving  her  to 
seek  the  interview  with  Sharpe,  he  had  informed  her,  not 
only  on  what  day,  but  at  what  hour,  to  look  for  his  return  ; 
and  he  reached  his  dwelling  within  fifteen  minutes  of  the 
appointed  moment. 

Anxiously  expecting  his  arrival,  she  had  walked  down 
the  grove  to  meet  him.  On  seeing  her,  he  raised  his  hand 
kerchief,  red  with  the  bloody  proofs  of  his  crime,  and  waved 
it  in  the  manner  of  a  Hag.  She  ran  to  meet  him,  and,  as 
he  leaped  from  his  horse,  she  fell  prostrate  on  her  face 
before  him.  Her  whole  frame  was  convulsed,  and  she 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

a'Why  weep,  why  tremble  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  Do  you 
weep  that  the  deed  is  done — the  shame  washed  out  in  the 
blood  of  the  criminal  —  that  you  are  avenged  at  last?" 

His  accents  were  stern  and  reproachful.  She  lifted  her 
hands  and  eyes  to  heaven  as  she  replied  : — 

"  >STO  !  not  for  this  I  weep  and  tremble ;  or,  if  for  this,  it 
is  in  gratitude  to  Heaven  that  has  smiled  upon  the  deed." 

But,  though  she  spoke  this  fearful  language,  she  spoke 
not  the  true  feeling  of  her  soul.  Wo  have  already  striven 
to  show  that  she  no  longer  possessed  those  feelings  which 
would  have  desired  the  performance  of  the  deed.  She  no 
longer  implored  revenge.  She  strove  to  reject  the  memory 
of  the  murdered  man,  as  well  as  of  the  wanton  crime  by 


340  BEAUCHAMPE. 

which  he  had  provoked  his  fate ;  and  the  emotion  which 
she  expressed,  when  she  beheld  the  bloody  signal  waving 
from  her  husband's  hands,  had  its  birth  in  the  revolting  of 
that  feminine  nature  which,  even  in  her,  after  the  long  con 
templation  which  had  made  her  imagination  familiar  with 
the  crime,  was  still  in  the  ascendant.  But  this  she  con 
cealed.  This  she  denied,  as  we  have  seen.  Her  motive 
was  a  noble  one.  It  is  soon  expressed  : — 

"  He  has  done  the  deed  for  me  —  in  my  behalf !  Shall  1 
now  refuse  approbation  ?  shall  I  withhold  my  sympathy  ? 
No !  let  his  guilt  be  what  it  may,  he  is  mine,  and  I  am  his, 
for  ever !" 

And,  with  this  resolve,  she  smiled  upon  the  murderer, 
kissed  his  bloody  hands,  and  lifted  her  own  to  Heaven  in 
seeming  gratitude  for  its  sanction  of  _ the  crime. 

But  a  new  feeling  was  added  to  those  which,  however 
conflicting,  her  words  and  looks  had  just  expressed.  She 
rose  from  the  ground  in  apprehension. 

"  But  are  you  safe,  my  husband  ?"  she  demanded. 

"What  matters  it?"  he  replied.  "  Has  he  not  fallen 
beneath  my  arm  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  if  you  are  not  safe  ! — " 

"  I  know  not  what  degree  of  safety  I  need,"  was  his 
reply.  "  I  have  thought  but  little  of  that.  If  you  mean, 
however,  to  ask  whether  I  ain  suspected  or  not,  I  tell  you  I 
believe  I  am.  Nay,  more — I  think  the  pursuers  are  after 
me.  They  will  probably  be  here  this  very  night.  But 
what  of  this,  dear  wife  ?  I  have  no  fears.  My  heart  is 
light.  I  am  really  happy  —  never  more  so — since  the  deed 
is  done.  I  could  laugh,  dance,  sing — practise  any  mirth 
or  madness — just  as  one,  who  has  been  relieved  of  his  pain, 
throws  by  his  crutch,  and  feels  his  limbs  and  strength  free 
at  last,  after  a  bondage  to  disease  for  years." 

And  he  caught  her  .in  his  arms  as  he  spoke,  and  his  eye 
danced  with  a  strange  fire,  which  made  the  woman  shudder 
to  behold  it.  A  cold  tremor  passed  through  her  veins. 


HUE   AND    CRY.  341 

"Are  you  not  happy  too?  —  do  you  not  share  with  ine 
this  joy  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure  I  do  !"  she  replied,  with  a  husky 
apprehension  in  her  voice,  which,  however,  he  did  not  seem 
to  observe. 


"  I  knew  it — I  knew  you  would  be  !    Such  a  relief,  end 


ing  in  a  triumph,  should  make  us  both  so  happy !  1  never 
was  more  joyful,  my  dear  wife.  Never!  never!"-  — and  lie 
laughed  —  laughed  until  the  woods  resounded  —  and  did 
not  heed  the  paleness  of  her  cheek ;  did  not  feel  the  falter 
ing  of  her  limbs  as  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast ;  did  not 
note  the  wildness  in  her  eye  as  she  looked  stealthily  back 
ward  on  the  path  over  which  he  came. 

She,  at  least,  was  now  fully  in  her  senses,  whatever  she 
may  have  been  before.  She  stopped  him  in  his  antics.  She 
drew  him  suddenly  aside,  into  the  cover  of  the  grove  —  for, 
by  this  time,  they  had  come  in  sight  of  the  dwelling  —  and, 
throwing  herself  on  her  knees,  clasped  his  in  her  arms, 
while  she  implored  his  instant  flight. 

But  he  flatly  refused,  and  she  strove  in  vain,  however 
earnestly,  to  change  his  determination.  All  that  she  could 
obtain  from  him  was,  a  promise  to  keep  silent,  and  not,  by 
any  act  of  his  own,  to  facilitate  the  progress  of  those  who_.-. 
might  seek  to  discover  the  proofs  of  his  criminality.  Crime, 
indeed,  he  had  long  ceased  to  consider  his  performance. 
The  change,  in  this  respect,  which  had  taken  place  in  her 
feelings  and  opinions,  had  produced  none  in  his.  His  mind- 
had  been  wrought  up  to  something  like  a  religious  frenzy. 
He  regarded  the  action,  not  only  as  something  due  to  jus 
tice —  an  action  appointed  for  himself  particularly — but  as 
absolutely  and  intrinsically  glorious. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  such  an  act  as  his  should  ahvays  be 
estimated  with  reference  to  the  sort  of  world  in  which  the 
performer  lives.  What  were  those  brave  deeds  of  the  mid 
dle  ages  —  the  avenging  of  the  oppressed,  the  widow,  ano 
the  orphan  —  by  which  stalwart  chiefs  made  themselves 


342  BEAUCHAMPE. 

famous  ?  Crimes,  too,  and  sometimes  of  the  blackest  sort, 
but  that  they  had  their  value  as  benefits  at  a  period  wLen 
society  afforded  no  redress  for  injury,  and  consequently  no 
protection  for  innocence. 

And  what  protection  did  society  afford  to  Margaret 
Cooper,  and  what  redress  for  injury  ?  Talk  of  your  action 
for  damages — your  five  thousand  dollars  —  and  of  what 
avail  to  such  a  woman,  robbed  of  innocence ;  mocked,  per 
secuted  ;  followed  to  the  last  refuge  of  her  life,  the  home 
of  her  mother  arid  her  husband  :  and,  afterward,  thrice- 
blackened  in  fame  by  the  wanton  criminal,  by  slanders  of 
the  most  shocking  invention  ! 

Society  never  yet  could  succeed  in  protecting  and  redres 
sing  all  its  constituents,  or  any  one  of  them,  in  all  his  or 
her  relations.  There  are  a  thousand  respects  where  the 
neighbors  must  step  in ;  where,  to  await  for  law,  or  to  hope 
for  law,  is  to  leave  the  feeble  and  the  innocent  to  perish. 
You  hear  the  cry  of  u  Murder  !"  Do  you  stop,  and  resume 
your  seat,  with  the  comforting  reflection  that,  if  John  mur 
ders  Peter,  John,  after  certain  processes  of  evidence,  will 
be  sent  to  the  stateprison  or  the  gallows,  and  make  a  goodly 
show,  on  some  gloomy  Friday,  for  the  curious  of  both  sexes  ? 
Law  is  a  very  good  thing  in  its  way,  but  it  is  not  every 
thing ;  and  there  are  some  honest  impulses,  in  every  manly 
bosom,  which  are  the  best  of  all  moral  laws  as  they  are 
the  most  certainly  human  of  all  laws.  Give  ue,  say  1, 
Kentucky  practice,  like  that  of  Beauchampe,  as  a  social 
law,  rather  than  that  which  prevails  in  some  of  our  pattern 
cities,  where  women  are.  in  three  fourths  the  number  of  in 
stances,  the  victims  —  violated,  mangled,  murdered  —  where 
men  are  the  criminals  —  and  where  (Heaven  kindly  having 
withdrawn  the  sense  of  shame)  thero^is^no  one  guilty  —  at 
least  none  brave  enough  or  manly  enough  to  bring  the  guilty 
to  punishment!  What  is  said  is  not  meant  to  defender 
encourage  the  shedding  uf  blood.  We  may  not  defend  the 
taking  of  life,  even  by  the  laws.  We  regard  life  as  an 


HUE   ASJ>   CRY. 

express  trust  from  Heaven,  of  which,  as  we  should  not 
divest  ourselves,  no  act  but  that  of  Heaven  should  divest 
us :  but  there  is  a  crime  beyond  it,  in  the  shedding  of  that 
vital  soul-blood,  its  heart  of  liearts,  life  of  all  life,  the  fair 
fame,  the  untainted  reputation  ;  and  the  one  offence  which 
provokes  the  other  should  be  placed  in  the  opposing  bal 
ance,  as  an  offset,  in  some  degree,  to  the  crime  by  which  it 
is  avenged. 


BEATJCHAMP^ 


CBAfTKK    XXXV. 

THE   DUNGEON. 

WE  could  tell  a  long  story  about  the  manner  in  which 
Beauchampe  was  captured ;  but  it  will  suffice  to  say  that 
when  the  pursuers  presented  themselves  at  his  threshold, 
he  was  ready,  and  with  the  high,  confident  spirit  of  one  as 
sured  that  all  was  right  in  his  own  own  bosom,  he  yielded 
himself  up  at  their  summons,  and  attended  them  to  Frank 
fort. 

Behold  him,  then,  in  prison.  The  cold,  gloomy  walls  are 
around  him,  and  all  is  changed,  of  the  sweet,  social  outer 
world,  in  the  aspects  which  meet  his  eye. 

But  the  woman  of  his  heart  is  there  with  him  ;  and  ii  the 
thing  that  we  love  is  left  us,  the  dungeon  has  its  sunshine, 
and  the  prison  is  still  a  home.  The  presence  of  the  loved 
one  hallows  it  into  home.  Amidst  doubt,  and  privation — 
the  restraint  he  endures,  and  the  penal  doom  which  he  may 
yet  have  to  suffer — her  affection  rises  always  above  his 
affliction,  and  baffles  the  ills  that  would  annoy,  and  soothes 
the  restraint  which  is  unavoidable.  She  has  a  consolation 
such  as  woman  alone  knows  to  administer,  for  the  despond 
ency  that  weighs  upon  him.  She  can  soothe  the  dark 
hours  with  her  song,  and  the  weary  ones  with  her  caress 
and  smile. 

But  not  to  ordinary  appeals  like  these  does  the  wife  of 
his  bosom  confine  her  ministry.  Her  soul  rises  in  strength 
corresponding-  to  the  demands  of  his.  Ardent  in  his  nature, 


THE   DUNGEON.  345 

Kttle  used  to  restraint,  the  circumscribed  boundary  of  his 
prison  grows  irksome,  at  moments,  beyond  his  temper  to 
endure.  At  such  moments  his  heart  fails  him,  and  doubts 
arise  —  shadows  of  the  solemn  truth  which  always  haunt  the 
soul  of  the  wrong-doer,  however  righteous  to  his  diseased 
mind  may  seem  his  deeds  at  the  moment  of  their  perform 
ance —  doubts  that  distress  him  with  the  fear  that  he  may 
still  have  erred. 

To  the  pure  heart — to  the  conscientious  spirit — there  is 
nothing  more  distressing  than  such  a  doubt ;  and  this  very 
distress  is  the  remorse  which  religion  loves  to  inspire,  when 
it  would  promote  the  workings  of  repentance.  It  is  a  mis 
placed  a»d  mistaken  kindness  that  the  wife  of  Beauchampe 
undertakes  to  fortify  his  faith,  and  strengthen  him  in  the 
conviction  that  all  is  right.  We  can  not  blame  her,  though 
pity  'tis  'twas  so.  She  no  longer  speaks — perhaps  she  no 
longer  thinks  —  of  the  deed  which  he  has  done,  as  an  event 
either  to  be  deplored,  or  to  have  been  avoided.  She  speaks 
of  it  as  a  necessary  misfortune.  As  she  found  that  he  de-' 
rived  his  chief  consolation  from  the  conviction  that  the  deed 
was  laudable,  she  toils,  with  deliberate  ingenuity  and  in 
dustry,  to  confirm  his  impressions.  Through  the  sad,  slow- 
pacing  moments  of  the  midnight,  she  sits  beside  him  and 
renews  the  long  and  cruel  story  of  her  wrong.  She  sup 
presses  nothing  now.  That  portion  of  the  narrative  relating 
to  the  diild,  from  her  previous  suppression  of  which,  the 
unhappy  man  whom  he  had  slain,  had  striven  to  originate 
certain  doubts  of  her  conduct,  and  to  infuse  them  into  the 
mind  of  Beauchampe  —  was  all  freely  told,  and  its  previous 
suppression  explained  and  accounted  for.  The  wife  seemed 
tc  take  a  singular  and  sad  pleasure  in  reiterating  this  pain 
ful  narrative  ;  and  yet,  every  repetition  of  the  tale  brought 
to  her  spirit  the  pang,  as  keenly  felt  as  ever,  of  her  early 
humiliation.  But  she  saw  that  the  renewal  of  the  story 
strengthened  the  feeling  of  self-justification  in  the  mind  of 
her  huaband.  !  That  was  the  rock  upon  which  he  stood,  and 

15* 


o4G  BEAUCHAMPE. 

to  confirm  the  solidity  of  that  support,  was  to  lighten  the 
restraints  of  his  prison,  and  all  the  terrors  which  might  be 
inspired  by  the  apprehension  of  his  doom.  Of  the  mere 
stroke  of  death,  he  had  no  fears  ;  but  there  is  something  in 
the  idea  of  a  felon  death  by  the  halter,  which  distresses 
and  subjugates  the  strongest  nerves.  This  idea  sometimes 
came  to  afflict  the  prisoner,  but  the  keen  instincts  of  his 
wife  enabled  her  very  soon  to  discover  the  causes  of  his 
depression,  and  her  quick,  commanding  intellect  provided 
her  with  the  arguments  which  were  to  combat  them. 

"  Do  not  fear,  my  husband."  she  would  say.  "  I  know 
that  they  must  acquit  you.  No  jury  of  men  —  men  who 
have  wives,  and  daughters,  and  sisters,  but  must  not  only 
acquit  you  of  crime,  but  must  justify  and  applaud  you  for 
the  performance  of  a  deed  which  protects  their'innocence, 
and  strikes  terror  into  the  heart  of  the  seducer.  You  have 
not  been  my  champion  merely,  you  are  the  champion  of  my 
*  sex.  The  blow  which  your  arm  has  struck,  was  a  blow  in 
'behalf  of  every  uirprptected  female,  of  every  poor  orphan  — 
fatherless,  brotherless,  and  undefended  —  who  otherwise 
would  be  the  prey  of  the  ruffian  and  the  betrayer.  No, 
no !  There  can  be  no  cause  of  fear.  I  do  not  fear  for  you. 
I  will  myself  go  into  the  court,  and,  if  need  be,  plead  your 
cause  by  telling  the  whole  story  of  my  wrong.  They  shall 
hear  me.  I  will  neither  fear  nor  blush  —  and  they  shall 
believe  me  when  they  hear." 

But  to  this  course  the  husband  objected.  The  heart  of  a 
man  is  more  keenly  alive  to  the  declared  shame  of  one  he 
truly  loves,  than  to  the  loss  of  life  or  of  any  other  great 
sacrifice  which  the  social  man  can  make.  Besides,  Beau 
champe  knew  better  than  his  wife  what  would  be  permitted, 
and  what  denied,  in  the  business  of  a  court  of  justice.  Still, 
it  was  necessary  that  steps  should  be  taken  for  his  defence. 
At  first,  he  proposed  to  argue  his  own  case  ;  but  he  was 
very  soon  conscious,  after  a  few  moments  given  to  reflec 
tion  on  this  subject,  that  his  feelings  would  enter  too  largely 


THE    DUNGEON.  347 

Into  his  mind  to  Duller  it  to  do  him  or  itself  justice.  While 
undetermined  what  course  to  pursue,  or  who  to  employ,  his 
friend  Covington  suggested  the  name  of  Calvert,  as  that  of 
a  lawyer  likely  to  do  him  more  justice  by  far  than  any  other 
that  he  could  name. 

"  I  know  Colonel  Calvert,"  said  the  young  man,  "  and  I 
can  assure  you  he  has  no  superior  as  a  jury  pleader  in  the 
country.  He  is  very  popular — makes  friends  wherever  he 
goes,  and  is  beginning  to  be  accounted,  everywhere,  the 
only  man  who  could  have  taken  the  field  against  Sharpe.'1 

"  But  what  was  it  that  you  told  me  of  his  fighting  with 
Sharpc  on  my  account !"  was  the  inquiry  of  Beauchampe, 
now  urged  with  a  degree  of  curiosity  which  he  had  neither 
shown  nor  felt,  when  the  fact  was  first  mentioned  to  him. 

"  Of  that  I  can  tell  you  little.  It  is  very  well  known 
that  Sharpe  and  Calvert  quarrelled  and  fought,  almost  at 
their  first  meeting.  The  friends  of  Sharpe  asserted  that 
the  quarrel  arose  on  account  of  offensive  words  which  Cal 
vert  made  use  of  in  disparagement  of  Desha." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  that  —  now  I  remember  —  from  Barnabas 
himself." 

"  Such  was  the  story ;  but  Sharpe  assured  me  that  the 
affair  really  took  place  on  account  of  Mrs.  Beauchampe." 

"  Mrs.  Beauchampe  !"  exclaimed  the  husband. 

The  wife,  who  was  present,  looked  up  inquiringly,  but 
said  nothing.  Mr.  Covington  looked  to  the  lady  and  re 
mained  silent,  while,  with  a  face  suddenly  flushed,  Beau 
champe  motioned  to  his  wife  to  leave  them.  When  she  had 
done  so,  Covington  repeated  what  had  been  said  by  Sharpe 
concerning  his  duel  with  Calvert. 

"  It  was  only  some  lie  of  his,  intended  to  help  his  eva 
sion.  It  was  to  secure  the  temporary  object.  I  never  heard 
of  Calvert  from  my  wife." 

Such  was  Beauchampe's  opinion.  But  Covington  thought 
otherwise. 

"  A  rumor  has  reached   me  since,"  he  added,  "  which 


^48  BEAUCHAMPE. 

leads  me  to  think  tl.at  the  story  is  not  altogether  withoui 
foundation.  At  all  events,  whether  there  be  anything  in  it 
or  not,  Calvert  will  be  your  man  for  the  defence.  If  any 
thing  is  to  be  done,  he  will  do  it.  But  really,  Beauchampc, 
if  you  have  stated  all  the  particulars,  they  can  establish 
nothing  against  you." 

"  Ah  !  the  general  persuasion  that  I  ought  to  kill  Sharpe, 
will  produce  testimony  enough.  I  think  I  shall  escape, 
Covington,  but  it  will  be  in  spite  of  the  testimony.  I  will 
escape,  because  of  the  sentiment  of  justice,  which,  in  the 
breast  of  every  honest  man,  will  say,  that  Sharpe  ought  to 
die,  and  that  no  hand  had  a  better  right  to  take  his  life  than 
mine.  But  you  know  the  faction.  They  arc  strong  —  his 
friends  and  relatives  are  numerous.  They  will  strain  every 
nerve  —  spare  no  money,  and  suborn  testimony  enough  to 
effect  their  object.  They  will  fail,  I  think  :  I  can  scarcely 
say  I  hope,  for,  of  a  truth,  my  dear  fellow,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  done  the  great  act  of  my  life.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
performed  the  crowning  achievement.  I  could  do  nothing 
more  meritorious  if  I  lived  a  thousand  years  ;  and  death, 
therefore,  would  not  be  to  me  now  such  a  misfortune  as  1 
should  have  regarded  it  a  month  ago.  Still,  life  has  some 
thing  for  me.  1  should  like  to  live.  The  thought  of  losing 
her,  is  a  worse  pang  than  any  that  the  mere  loss  of  life  could 
inflict/' 

The  prisoner  was  touched  as  he  said  these  words.  A  big 
tear  gathered  in  his  eye,  and  he  averted  his  face  from  his 
companion.  Covington  rose  to  depart.  As  he  did  so  he 
asked  :  — 

"  Shall  I  see  Calvert  for  you,  Beauchampe  ?" 

"  I  will  think  of  it,  and  let  you  know  to-morrow/'  was 
the  reply. 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  Your  enemies  are  busy,  and 
Calvert  lives  at  some  distance.  He  must  be  written  to,  and 
time  may  be  lost,  as  he  may  be  on  the  road  Tiow  somewhere, 
I  will  look  in  upon  you  in  the  morning." 


THE    DUNGEON.  349 

"  Do  so.  I  shall  then  be  better  able  to  say  what  should 
be  doae.  I  will  think  of  it  to-night:  but,  of  a  truth,  Cov 
ing  ton,  I  do  no'  feel  disposed  to  do  anything.  [  prefer  to 
remain  inactive.  For  what  should  I  say?  Speak  out? 
That  would  be  against  all  legal  notions  of  making  a  de 
fence.  And  yet,  I  know  no  mode  properly  of  defending 
myself,  than  by  declaring  the  act  iny  owu,  and  justifying 
it  as  such.  To  myself — to  my  own  soul  —  it  is  thus  justi 
fied.  God!  —  if  it  were  not!  But,  in  order  to  make  this 
justification  felt  by  the  jury,  they  must  know  my  secret. 
They  must  hear  all  that  damning  tale  of  her  iriai  and  over 
throw,  and  the  serpent-like  progress  of  him  whose  head  I 
have  bruised  for  "ever !  How  can  /  tell  foot, 9  That  is 
impossible !" 

Covington  agreed  with  the  speaker,  who  proceeded  thus : 
"  Well,  then,  I  am  silent.  The  general  issue  is  one  of 
form,  pleading  which  I  am  not  supposed  to  be  guilty  of  any 
violation  of  the  law  of  morals  ---  though  what  an  absurdity 
is  that!  —  I  plead  it,  and  keep  silent.  The  onus  probandi 
lies  with  the  state — " 

"  And  it  can  prove  nothing,  if  your  statement  be  correct." 
"  Non  sequitur,  my  good  fellow.  My  statement  is  cor 
rect.  Nobody  saw  me  commit  the  deed.  The  clothes 
which  I  wore  are  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  Kentucky  river ; 
the  dirk  is  buried ;  and  I  know  that,  with  the  exception  of 
the  great  Omniscient,  my  proceedings  were  hidden  from  the 
eyes  of  all.  But  it  does  not  follow  from  this  that  there 
will  be  no  evidence  against  me.  I  suspect  there  will  be 
witnesses  enough.  The  friends  and  family  of  Sharpe  will 
suborn  witnesses.  There  are  hundreds  of  people,  too,  who 
readily  believe  what  they  fancy ;  a*>d  conjecture  will  make 
details  fast  enough,  which  the  vanit;  of  seeming  to  know 
will  prompt  the  garrulous  to  deliver.  I  am  convinced  that 
vanity  makes  a  great  many  witnesses,  who  will  lie  for  the 
sake  of  having  something  to  say,  and  will  swear  to  the  lie 
for  the  sake  of  having  an  audience  who  are  compelled  to 


360  BEAUCHAMPE. 

listen  to  them.  With  a  little  management,  you  can  get 
anything  sworn  to.v  You  have  heard  of  the  philosopb-ai 
who,  under  a  bet,  with  some  previous  arrangement,  collect 
ed  a  crowd  in  the  street  to  see  certain  stars  at  noonday, 
which  soon  became  visible  to  as  many  as  looked.  Som« 
few  did  not  see  so  many  stars  as  others,  nor  did  they  seein 
to  these  so  bright  as  to  the  rest ;  but  all  of  them  saw  the 
stars  —  they  were  there— -  that  was  enough;  and  some  of 
your  big-mouthed  observers  booked  a  few  incipient  m 00113 
or  comets,  and,  of  course,  were  more  conspicuous  themselves 
in  consequence  of  their  conspicuous  sight-seeing.  If  I  have 
any  fear  at  all,  it  will  be  from  some  such  quarter.  The 
friends  of  Sharpe  have  already  turned  upon  me  as  the 
criminal,  and  other  eyes  will  follow  theirs.  Those  who 
know  the  crime  of  Sharpe,  will  conclude  that  the  deed  is 
mine,  from  a  conviction  which  all  have  felt  that  it  should 
be  mine ;  and,  not  to  look  to  the  political  mano3uvrers  for 
interference,  I  make  no  question  but  they  will  find  the  very 
dagger  with  which  the  deed  was  done  —  perhaps  half-a-dozen 
daggers  —  each  of  which  will  have  its  believer,  and  each 
believer  will  be  possessed  of  as  many  leading  circumstances 
to  identify  the  murderer." 

"  I  believe  that  they  will  try  to  convict  you,  Beauchampe, 
but  I  can  not  think,  with  you,  that  witnesses  are  so  easy  to 
be  found." 

"  We  shall  see  —  we  shall  see." 

"  At  all  events,  a  good  lawyer,  who  will  probe  such  wit 
nesses  to  the  quick,  will  be  the  best  security  against  their 
frauds,  whether  these  arise  from  vanity  or  malevolence ; 
and  I  can  not  too  earnestly  recommend  you  to  let  me  gee 
or  write  to  Calvert." 

"  On  that  point  I  will  give  you  my  answer  hereafter," 
eaid  Beauchampe  evasively. 

"  In  the  morning,"  suggested  the  other. 

"  Ay,  perhaps  so :  at  least,  Covington,  let  me  see  you  then.': 

The  other  promised,  and,  taking  a  kind  farewell,  depart 


THE    DUNGEON.  351 

ed.  Wjien  he  had  gone,  the  wife  of  Beauchanipe  reappeared, 
and,  with  some  earnestness  of  manner,  he  directed  her  to 
sit  beside  him  upon  his  pallet. 

''  Anna,"  said  he,  "you  never  told  me  anything  of  a  Mr. 
Calvert.  Do  you  know  any  such  person,  and  how  are  you 
interested  in  him  ?" 

'  I  know  but  one  person  of  the  name  —  an  old  gentleman 
wno  taught  school  at  Charlemont.  But  I  have  neither  seen 
aor  heard  of  him  for  years." 

"  An  old  gentleman  !     How  old  ?" 

"  Perhaps  sixty  or  sixty-five." 

"  Not  the  same  !  But,  perhaps,  he  had  a  son  ?  Now,  ] 
remember,  that,  when  I  went  to  Bowling-Green,  there  wa? 
an  old  gentleman,  with  a  very  white  head,  who  seemed  inti 
mate  with  Colonel  Calvert." 

"He  had  no  son  —  none,  at  least,  that  I  ever  saw." 

"  It  is  strange  !" 

"  What  is  strange,  Beauchampe  ?"  she  asked. 

He  then  told  her  all  that  he  had  learned  from  Covington. 
She  concurred  with  him  that  it  was  strange,  if  true  ;  but  de 
clared  her  belief  that  the  story  was  an  invention  of  Sharpe, 
by  which  he  hoped  to  effect  some  object  which  he  might 
fancy  favorable  to  his  safety. 

"But,  at  all  events,  husband,  employ  this  Colonel  Cal 
vert,  of  whom  Mr.  Covington  and  the  public  seem  to  think 
so  highly.  You  have  spoken  very  highly  of  him  yourself1* 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply ;  "  but  somehow,  Anna,  I  am  loath 
to  do  anything  in  my  defence.  I  hate  to  seek  evasion  from 
the  dangers  of  an  act  which  I  performed  deliberately,  and 
would  again  perform,  were  it  again  necessary." 

"  But  this  is  a  strange  prejudice,  surely,  Beaucharape. 
Why  should  you  not  defend  yourself?" 

"  I  would,  my  wife,  if  defence,  in  this  case,  implied  justi 
fication." 

"  And  does  it  not  ?"  demanded  the  wife  anxiously. 

"No,  nothing  like  it.     It  implies  evasion  —  the  suppres 


352  BEAUCHA-1\TPE. 

sion  of  the  truth,  if  not  the  suggestion  of  the  falsehood 
You  are  no  lawyer,  Anna.  JThc  truth  would  condeirr  me." 

"  What !   the  whole  truth  !" 

"No  —  perhaps  not;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  get  the 
whole  truth  before  a  jury:  and,  even  if  this  could  be  done, 
cPM«/doit?" 

"And  why  not,  my  husband?"  she  demanded  earnestly, 
approaching  him  at  the  same  moment,  and  laying  her  hand 
impressively  upon  his  shoulder,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  his  own  — 

"And  why  not?  The  day  of  shame  —  shame  from  this 
cause  —  has  gone  by  from  us.  We  are  either  above  or  be 
low  the  world.  At  least,  we  depend  not  for  the  heart's 
sustenance  upon  it.  Suppose  it  scorns  and  reviles  us  — 
suppose  it  points  to  me  as  the  miserable  victim  of  that 
viperous  lust  which  crawled  into  our  valleys  with  a  glozing 
tongue  —  I,  that  know  how  little  I  was  the  slave  of  that  foul 
passion,  in  my  own  breast,  will  not  madden,  more  than  I 
have  done,  at  its  contumelious  judgment.  They  can  not 
call  me  harlot.  No,  Beauchampe  !  I  fell ;  I  was  trampled 
in  the  dust  of  shame  ;  I  was  guilty  of  weakness,  and  vanity, 
and  wilfulness  ;  but,  believe  me,  if  ever  spirit  felt  the  re 
morse  and  the  ignominy  which  belong  to  virtuous  repent 
ance  of  error,  that  spirit  was  mine !" 

"I  know  it — do  I  not  know  it,  dearest?"  he  said,  ten 
derly  taking  her  in  his  arms. 

"  I  believe  you  know  and  feel  it ;  and  this  conviction, 
Beauchampe.  strengthens  me  against  the  world.  In  your 
judgment  I  fixed  my  proper  safety  for  the  future.  Let  the 
world  know  all  —  the  whole  truth  —  if  that  will  anything 
avail  for  your  justification.  Let  them  speak  of  me  here 
after  as  they  please.  Secure  in  myself — secure  from  the 
self-reproach  of  having  fallen  a  victim  to  the  harlot-appe 
tite  (though  the  victim  to  my  own  miserable  vanity  and 
folly) — doubly  secure  in  your  conviction  of  the  truth  of 
what  I  say,  and  am  —  I  can  smile  at  all  that  follows :  I  can 


353 

mniv,  Reaiichatnpc  -^minr"  i!  \vllh  patience  and  forti 
tude,  and  without  distressing  you  or  myself  with  the  lan 
guage  of  complaint.  Do  not,  therefore,  dear  Beauchampe, 
refuse  the  justification  which  the  truth  may  bring,  through 
any  wish  to  save  me  from  the  further  exposure.  Hear  me, 
I  assure  you,  solemnly,  in  this  solemn  midnight  — 
no  eye  upon  us  in  this  cold,  gloomy  dungeon,  but 
that  of  Heaven  —  hear  me  solemnly  affirm  that  though  you 
should  resolve  to  spare  me,  I  will  not  spare  myself.  If  need 
be,  I  will  go  into  the  courthouse  —  before  the  assembled 
judges,  before  the  people  —  and  with  my  own  tongue  declare 
the  story  of  my  shame.  Base  should  I  be,  indeed,  if,  to  save 
these  cheeks  from  the  scarlet  which  would  follow  such  a 
recital,  I  could  see  them  hale  you  to  the  ignominious  gal 
lows!" 

"  And  sooner  would  I  die  a  thousand  deaths  on  that  gal- 
lows,  than  suffer  you  to  do  yourself  such  cruel  wrong!" 

Such  was  the  answer  spoken  with  effort,  with  husky  ac 
cents,  which  the  criminal  made  to  the  strong-minded  woman, 
whose  high-souled,  and  seemingly  unnatural  resolution  — 
however  opposed  to  his — yet  touched  him  really  as  a  proof 
of  the  most  genuine  devotion.  He  did  not  say  more  ;  he 
did  not  offer  to  dispute  a  resolution  which  lie  well  knew 
he  could  not  overthrow  ;  but  he  determined,  inly,  to  prac 
tise  some  becoming  artifice,  to  deprive  her,  when  the  crisis 
of  his  fate  was  at  hand,  of  any  opportunity  of  meddling  in 
its  progress. 

Thus  the  night  waned — (he  long,  dark  night,  in  that 
doomy  dungeon.  Not  altogether  gloomy  !  Devotion  makes 
liii-ht  in  the  dark  places.  Love  cheers  the  solitude  with  its 
own  pure  ^tar-lighted  countenance.  Sincerity  wins  us  from 
the  contemplation  of  the  darkness;  and  with  the  sweet 
word  of  the  truthful  comforter  in  our  ear,  the  fever  subsides 
from  the  throbbing  temples,  and  the  downcast  heart  is  lifted 
into  hope.  That  night,  and  every  night,  she  shared  with 
him  his  dungeon ! 


854 


CHAPTER  XXXY1. 

DIFFERENT   PHILOSOPHIES   OF   LOVE. 

THE  arguments  of  Covington,  to  persuade  Beauchampe 
to  employ  the  services  of  Calvert,  were  unavailing.  He,  at 
length,  gave  it  up  in  despair.  The  very  suggestion  which 
Sharpehad  made,  that  Calvert  had  some  knowledge  already 
of  the  wife's  character,  and  that  the  duel  between  himself 
and  Calvert 'had  originated  in  the  knowledge  of  his  wrong 
to  her — however  curious  it  made  Beauchampe  to  learn  what 
relation  the  latter  could  have  had  to  his  wife  —  was  also  a 
cause,  why,  in  the  general  soreness  of  his  feelings  on  this 
subject,  he  should  studiously  avoid  the  professional  assist 
ance  of  the  other.  The  wife,  when  Covington  took  his  de 
parture,  renewed  the  attempt.  The  arguments  of  the  latter 
had  been  more  imposing  to  her  mind  than  they  were  to  that 
of  the  husband  ;  but,  repeated  by  her,  they  did  not  prove  a 
jot  more  successful  that  when  urged  by  Covington.  To 
these  she  added  suggestions  of  her  own,  a  sample  of  which 
we  have  seen  in  a  previous  chapter ;  but  the  prisoner  re 
mained  stubborn.  The  wife  at  length  ceased  to  persuade, 
having,  with  the  quick  perception  and  nice  judgment  which 
distinguished  her  character,  observed  the  true  point  of  dif 
ficulty —  one  not  to  be  easily  overcome  —  and  which  was  to 
be  assailed  in  a  manner  much  more  indirect.  She  resolved 
to  engage  the  services  of  Calvert  herself. 

Her  own  curiosity  had  been  raised  in  some  degree  by 
what  she  had  heard  in  respect  to  this  person  ;  and  though 


DIFFERENT    PHILOSOPHIES   OF   LOVE.  355 

she  did  not  believe"  the  story  which  Covington  got  from 
Sharpe,  touching  the  causes  of  the  duel  between  himself  and 
rival,  yet  the  fact  that  they  haJ  fought,  and  that  Calvert 
had  been  wounded  in  the  conflict  with  her  enemy,  of  itself 
commended  the  former  to  her  regard.  As  the  period  for 
her  husband's  trial  drew  nigh,  her  anxieties  naturally  in 
creased,  so  as  to  strengthen  her  in  the  resolution  which  she 
had  already  formed  to  secure  those  legal  services  which 
Beauchampe  had  rejected.  Accordingly,  concealing  her 
purpose  she  absented  herself  from  the  prison,  and,  having 
secured  the  necessary  information,  set  forth  on  her  mission. 

Of  the  prosperous  fortunes  of  William  Calvert,  some 
glimpses  have  already  been  given  to  the  reader  in  the  course 
of  this  narrative.  These  glimpses,  we  trust,  have  sufficed 
to  satisfy  any  curiosity,  which  the  story  of  his  youth  and 
youthful  disappointments  might  have  occasioned  in  any 
mind.  We  understand,  of  course,  that  thrown  upon  his  own 
resources,  driven  from  the  maternal  petticoats,  which  en 
feeble  and  destroy  so  many  thousand  sons,  the  necessities 
to  which  he  was  subjected,  in  the  rough  attrition  of  the 
world,  had  brought  into  active  exercise  all  the  materials  of 
his  physical  and  intellectual  manhood.  He  had  plodded 
over  the  dusky  volumes  of  the  law  with  unrelaxing  dili 
gence.  He  had  gone  through  his  probationary  period  with 
out  falling  into  any  of  those  emasculating  practices  which 
too  often  enslave  the  moral  sense  and  dissipate  the  intellec 
tual  courage  of  young  men.  He  had  graduated  with  credit : 
had  begun  practice  with  an  unusual  quantity  of  business 
patronage,  and  had  made  his  debut  with  a  degree  of  eclat, 
which,  while  it  put  to  rest  all  the  apprehensions  of  the 
good  old  man  who  had  adopted  him,  had  effectually  recom 
mended  him  to  the  public,  as  one  of  the  strong  men  to  whom 
they  could  turn  with  confidence,  to  represent  the  character 
istics  and  maintain  the  rights  of  the  people. 

Of  his  success,  some  idea  may  be  formed,  if  we  remember 
die  position  in  which  he  stood  in  the  conflict  with  Colonel 


35G  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Sharpe.  If  the  latter  was  the  Coryphaeus  of  one  party, 
William  Calvert  was  regarded  by  all  eyes  as  the  most 
prominent  champion  of  the  other ;  and  though  the  other 
party  might  be  in  the  minority,  it  was  not  the  less  obvious 
to  most,  that,  if  the  success  of  the  party  could  be  made  en 
tirely  to  depend  upon  the  relative  strength  of  the  represen 
tative  combatants,  the  result  would  have  been  very  far- 
otherwise.  The  best  friends  of  Sharpe,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  endeavored  to  press  upon  him  the  belief,  which  they 
really  felt,  that,  with  such  an  opponent  as  William  Calvert 
in  the  field  against  him,  it  would  require. the  exercise  of 
his  very  best  talents  in  order  to  maintain  his  ground.  We 
need  not  dwell  longer  on  this  part  of  our  subject. 

But,  with  the  prominence  of  position,  taken  of  necessity 
by  William  Calvert,  in  the  political  world,  was  an  accumu 
lation  of  legal  business  which  necessarily  promised  fortune. 
Jn  the  brief  space  of  three  years  which  followed  his  admis 
sion  to  the  bar,  his  clients  became  so  numerous  as  to  ren 
der  it  necessary  that  he  should  concentrate  his  attentions 
upon  a  more  limited  circuit  of  practice.  Other  effects  fol 
lowed,  and  the  good  old  man  whose  name  he  had  taken, 
leaving  Charlemont,  like  his  protege,  for  ever,  had  come  to 
live  with  him  in  the  flourishing  town  where  he  had  taken 
up  his  abode.  Here  their  united  funds  enabled  them  to  buy 
a  fine  house  and  furnish  it  with  a  taste  which,  day  by  day, 
added  some  object  of  ornament  or  use. 

The  comforts  being  duly  considered,  the  graces  were  ne 
cessarily  secured,  as  the  accumulation  of  means  furnished 
the  necessary  resources.  Books  grew  upon  the  already- 
groaning  shelves  ;  sweet  landscapes  and  noble  portraits 
glowed  from  the  walls.  With  no  wife  to  provide,  in  those 
thousand  trifles  for  which  no  funds  would  be  altogether 
adequate,  in  the  shocking  and  offensive  style  of  expendi 
ture  which  ha?  recently  covered  our  land  with  sores  and 
spangles,  shame  and  frippery  —  the  income  of  William  Cal 
vert  ^as  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  such  tastes  as  are 


DIFFERENT   PHILOSOPHIES    OF    LO\fE.  357 

legitimate  in  the  eyes  of  a  truly  philosophical  judgment. 
He  sought  for  no  attractions  but  such  as  gave  employment 
either  to  iho  sense  of  beauty  or  the  growth  of  the  under 
standing. 

The  contemplation  of  the  forms  of  beauty  produces  in  the 
mind  a  love  of  harmony  and  proportion,  which,  in  turn,  es 
tablish  a  nice  moral  sense,  that  revolts  with  loathing  at 
what  is  mean,  coarse,  or  brutal;  and,  with  this  impression, 
our  young  lawyer,  whenever  his  purse  permitted  such  out 
lay,  despatched  his  commission  to  the  Atlantic  city  for  the 
S{ leaking  canvass  or  the  eloquent  and  breathing  bust.  In 
tastes  like  these  his  paternal  friend  fully  sympathized  with 
him.  In  fact  they  had  been  first  awakened  in  him  by  his 
venerable  tutor,  during  the  course  of  his  boyish  education. 
Thus  co-operating,  and  with  habits,  which,  in  other  re 
spects,  were  singularly  inexpensive,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
the  dwelling  of  William  Calvert  should  already  be  known, 
among  the  people  of  -  — ,  as  the  very  scat  of  elegance  and 
art.  His  pictures  formed  a  theme  among  his  acquaintance 
—  arid  even  those  who  were  not  —  which  every  new  addi 
tion  contributed  to  revive  and  enlarge  ;  and,  in  the  inno 
cent  pursuit  of  such  objects  of  grace  and  beauty — with 
books,  the  philosophies  and  songs,  of  the  old  divines  of  Na 
ture —  her  proper  priesthood  —  the  days  of  the  youth  began 
io  go  by  sweetly  and  with  such  soothing,  that  the  memory 
of  Margaret  Cooper,  though  it  never  ceased  to  sadden,  yet 
now  failed  entirely  to  sting.  He  had  neither  ceased  to 
love  nor  to  regret ;  but  his  disappointment  did  not  now  oc 
casion  a  pang,  nor  was  his  regret  such  as  to  leave  him  in 
sensible  to  the  genial  influences  which  life  everywhere 
spreads  generously  ground  for  the  working  spirit,  and  the 
just  and  gentle  heart. 

But,  as  we  have  seen,  William  Calvert  was  not  permit 
ted,  either  by  his  own  nature  and  pursuits,  or  by  the  exac 
tions  of  sooicty,  to  indulge  .simply  in  the  elegancies  of  life. 
The  possession  of  active  talents  of  any  kind,  and  in  all 


358  BEAUCHAMPE. 

regions,  implies  a  proper  impulse  to  their  use.  This  is 
more  particularly  the  case  in  our  country,  where  the  field  is 
more  free  than  in  all  others,  more  open  to  all  comers,  and 
where  the  absence  of  hereditary  distinctions  and  a  prescrip 
tive  social  prestige  compels  ambition  to  Ptrain  erery  nerve 
in  the  attainment  of  position. 

The  profession  of  the  law  itself  implies  government  among 
us,  and  politics  are  apt  to  lay  their  talons  upon  all  who  ex 
hibit  the  possession  of  oratorical  powers  in  connection  with 
the  pursuit  of  law.  William  Calvert,  somewhat  in  spite  of 
his  own  tastes  and  wishes  —  for  he  well  knew  how  slavish 
and  degrading  were  the  conditions  of  public  favor  in  a  de 
mocracy  like  ours  —  was  forced  to  buckle  on  the  armor  of 
party,  and  take  the  field  in  a  great  local  contest,  which 
contemplated  federal  as  well  as  state  politics. 

We  have  seen  how  suddenly  his  career  was  arrested  and 
suspended  for  a  season,  by  the  bullet,  at  five  paces,  of  his 
political  rival. 

His  wound  —  probable  owing  to  the  bold  course  adopted 
by  his  venerable  counsellor — was  not  a  serious  one,  though 
it  laid  him  up  for  a  space,  during  which  his  party  was  de 
feated  ;  a  result  which  many  of  its  able  men  were  pleased 
to  ascribe  mostly  to  the  fact  that  their  chief  speaker  was 
thus  hors  de  combat.  This  conviction  strengthened  his 
claims  in  the  future,  though  the  immediate  battle  was  lost 
in  which  he  had  been  engaged  at  the  time.  The  defeat 
was  temporary  only  —  that  they  all  felt;  and  all  parties 
were  equally  persuaded  that  the  next  struggle  must  eventu 
ate  in  the  elevation  of  William  Calvert  to  the  full  supremacy 
over  his  own. 

The  brief  period  during  which  lie  was  confined  to  his 
chamber  by  his  hurt  was  one  which  was  crowded  with  am 
ple  testimonies  of  his  popularity  with  the  many,  and  the 
grateful  esteem  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  the  select 
and  sacred  few.  The  sturdy  yeomen  thronged  to  inquire 
about  his  progress  with  an  interest  which  showed  how 


DIFFERENT    PHILOSOPHIES    OF    LOVE. 

deeply  lie  had  made  his  way  into  the  common  heart.  Nor 
were  the  men  of  mark  less  earnest  and  considerate  —  less 
solicitous  of  the  fate  of  one  who,  as  a  dangerous  rival,  must 
either  be  denounced  or  conciliated.  Higher  and  more  hon 
orable  motives  were  at  work,  however,  in  the  breasts  of 
others  —  too  far  above  the  crowd  to  suffer  such  as  these  to 
abridge  their  sympathies ;  and  the  bedside  of  our  young 
lawyer  was  honored  by  the  visits  of  such  great  men  as  Clay 
and  Crittenden.  His  wound,  though  rendering  his  thigh  a 
somewhat  sore  precinct  for  a  while,  was  yet  productive  of 
much  balm  and  soothing  for  his  mind  and  heart. 

"But  there  was  one  visiter,  over  all,  whose  unexpected 
presence  was  eminently  grateful,  bringing  with  it  not  only 
a  true  devotion  and  a  genuine  sympathy,  but  recalling  so 
many  dear  and  pleasant  passages  in  a  past  of  various  sad 
and  sweet  experiences.  As  soon  as  his  cousin  Ned  Hink- 
!ey  heard  of  his  disaster,  he  hastened  off  to  see  and  tend 
upon  him,  bringing  with  him  nothing  but  a  carpet-bag,  with 
a  few  changes  of  linen,  his  violin,  and  a  pair  of  pistols,  con 
secrated  in  the  family  affections  by  a  grandsire's  use  of 
them  in  Revolutionary  periods. 

Ned  Hinkley,  though  a  good  fellow,  was  inveterate  as  a 
violinist.  Ned  relieved  the  violin  by  occasional  practice 
with  the  pistols.  Njed's  boast  was  that  he  could  draw  an 
equally  good  sight  and  bow ;  and  Ned  was  especially  anx- 
ions  to  take  up  the  game  with  Colonel  Sharpe —  to  whom 
he  owed  an  old  grudge  as  Alfred  Stevens — just  where  his 
cousin  had  ended  it.  Ned's  conscience  troubled  him,  too, 
as  being  somewhat  the  occasion  of  William's  present  suffer 
ings,  as  he  felt  and  said,  very  logically  :— 

u  For  you  see,  Willie,  if  I  had  shot  that  fellow  Stevens, 
five  years  ago,  as  I  ought  to  have  done,  he  wouldn't  have 
been  able  to  put  an  ounce  bullet  into  your  bacon !" 

It  was  no  fault  of  Ned,  we  assure  you,  that  he  did  not 
shoot  Stevens.  He  had  every  disposition  to  do  that  oily 
politician  gome  such  touching  service. 


300  BEAUCHAMPE. 

Ned  Hinkley  was  a  good  companion.     He  was  lively 
garrulous,  full  of  quip  and  crank  ;  could  make  his  fiddle 
speak  when  his  own  tongue  was  tired ;  was  a  very  loving 
kinsman,  and  no  humbug.     He  was  as  sincere  as  sunshine. 

He  was  soon  installed  beside  the  couch  of  the  wounded 
man,  relieving  old  Mr.  Calvert  of  his  watch,  and  sharing 
with  him  the  grateful  employment  of  amusing  the  invalid, 
which  he  did  after  a  fashion  of  his  own.  We  give  a  sample 
of  his  quality  in  this  sort  of  performance: — 

"  And  how  does  it  feel,  Willie  ?" 

"  How  does  what  feel  ?" 

"  Why,  the  bullet  in  your  hip." 

"  There  is  no  bullet  there  now,  Ned.     It  is  extracted. 

"Well,  I  know  that!  What  I  mean  to  ask  is,  what  is 
the  sort  of  sensation  which  it  leaves  behind  it  ?  Rather  a 
pleasant  one,  I  suppose !" 

"  Indeed  !  a  curious  supposition,  Ned." 

"  Not  so !  In  small  wounds,  such  is  the  case  usually 
when  they  are  in  a  way  to  heal.  I  have  so  found  it  in  my 
own  case.  When  I  was  getting  better  of  that  ugly  gash  I 
got  at  muster  six  years  ago — you  remember  —  from  P^alph 
Byers,  I  was  really  delighted  by  the  sensation.  There  was 
a  sort  of  pleasant  tickling  going  on  all  the  time,  as  Nature 
was  taking  up  the  old  threads  and  reuniting  them.  So, 
when  I  shot  off  that  finger,  trying  Tom  Curtis's  little  double 
barrel  —  after  the  first  pain  of  the  thing  was  over,  I  began 
to  feel  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  sensation  ;  and  I  suppose 
there's  good  reason  for  it.  Nature,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
like  a  good  surgeon,  will  do  her  best  to  .soothe  one's  hurts 
on  such  an  occasion,  by  some  secret  remedial  processes  of 
her  own.  The  fact  is,  I  always  found  so  much  pleasure  in 
getting  well  on  such  occasions,  that  I  found  myself  always 
pulling  and  picking  at  the  wound,  just  to  keep  up  a  sort 
of  irritation,  so  as  to  prolong  the  duration  of  the  cure." 

"  Comical!  On  the  same  plan,  if  you  found  a  medicine^ 
however  nauseous,  doing  its  work  effectually,  you  will  re- 


DIFFERENT   PHILOSOPHIES   OP   LOVE.  361 

quire  that  the  dose  should  be  doubled,  and  take  some  of 
the  physic  daily,  with  the  same  object — the  prolongation 
of  the  benefit." 

"  Not  so  —  no!  The  analogy  fails,  Willie.  The  skin, 
or  flesh,  is  one  thing;  but  the  stomach  is  another  —  quite. 
No  tampering  with  that!  It  is  sacred  to  fish,  flesh,  fowl, 
and  physic  is  its  abomination.  I  don't  believe  in  physic, 
though  I  do  in  the  pleasure  of  flesh-wounds." 

The  tuning  of  the  fiddle  followed  this  philosophy;  and, 
under  the  sedative  influences  of  an  original  fanta.sia  which 
might  have  afforded  some  new  ideas  to  Ole  Bull,  William 
Calvert  sank  off  into  a  pleasant  slumber,  leaving  Ned  in 
the  midst  of  a  backwoods-  commentary  on  the  nature,  the 
sources,  and  the  methods  of  music,  particularly  of  violin- 
music,  which  he  held  to  be  the  proper  foundation  of  every 
other  sort. 

Ned  Hinkley  thus,  alternating  between  his  sister's  farm 
stead  and  the  house  of  his  cousin  --the  two  places  being 
some  twelve  miles  apart — continued  to  visit  and  console 
William  Calvert  through  the  month  of  his  confinement. 

And  this  was  no  small  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  Ned,  when 
we  are  told  that,  in  addition  to  the  fatigue  of  such  a  ride 
some  three  or  four  times  a  week,  he  was  busily  engaged  in 
all  the  rigors  of  a  warm  courtship.  Of  course,  he  told  his 
cousin  the  whole  history  of  his  wooing. 

«  Well — but,  Ned,  how  is  it  that  you  have  forborne  all 
description  of  Miss  Bernard  ?" 

"  Sallie  Bernard  is  indescribable,  Willie.'' 

"  What !  so  very  beautiful  ?" 

"  No !  I  don't  think  that  even  a  lover  would  call  her 
beautiful." 

"  Is  she  so  wise,  then  —  so  highly  endowed  with  intellect, 
and  the  graces  and  accomplishments  ?" 

"  No,  I  can't  say  that  either !  The  fact  is,  Willie,  that 
Sallie  is  nothing  more  than  a  clever  country-girl  — a  good 
girl,  a  loving  girl,  a  gentle  girl,  and  a  willing  girl  — and 

16 


3;'j.  BEAUCHAMPE. 

that  word  willing  goes  a  great  ways  with  me  in  a  woman. 
1  don't  go  for  wisdom,  and  learning,  and  great  talents,  arid 
great  beauties,  and  charms,  and  graces,  in  a  wife,  Willie ; 
I  go  for  a  woman  —  a  true  woman — that  knows  she's  the 
weaker  vessel,  and  knows  what's  due  to  her  lord  and  mas 
ter.  I  am  after  a  wife,  not  a  philosopher  in  petticoats.  1 
want  a  wife  who  will  be  the  mother  of  my  children  ;  not  a 
conceited  fool,  who  is  perpetually  trying  to  show  the  world 
that  she  is  more  of  a  man  than  her  husband,  as  is  the  case 
generally  with  all  that  sort  of  people,  of  whom  your  famous 
Margaret  Cooper  was  a  particularly  superb  brimstone  ex 
ample." 

"  Nothing  of  her,  Ned,"  said  the-  other  sadly.  "  Tell  me 
of  your  Sallie  Bernard." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you  in  poetry.  You  know 
that  I  too  have  written  verses,  and  was  no  small  fish  at  it, 
as  you  remember.  I  am  half  disposed  to  think  that  my 
verses  were  sometimes  quite  as  good  as  yours.  You  re 
member  the  lines  I  wrote  upon  the  old  mill  at  Chaiie- 
mont?" 

"  Yes  :  they  were  really  very  good,  Ned." 

"  To  be  sure  they  were  !  I  doubt  if  you  could  do  better, 
try  your  best.  Then  there  was  the  epitaph  I  made  on  poor 
old  Wolf,  my  bull-terrier.  'Gad!  I  liked  it  better  than 
Lord  Byron's  on  his  Newfoundland  pup.  But  I've  done 
better  things  since,  that  I  never  showed  you ;  and  some  of 
my  lines  about  Sallie  are,  to  my  thinking,  quite  good  enough 
to  be  put  into  a  magazine." 

"  Very  likely,  Ned  —  and  yet  not  make  you  sure  of  cedar- 
oil  immortality.  But  let's  have  your  metrical  portrait  of 
Miss  Sallie." 

"  You  shall !  I'm  not  squeamish  about  it ;  and  these 
verses  are  just  about  the  proper  answer  to  your  question. 
They  tell  you  just  why  I  love  Sallie,  and  for  what  a  man 
ought  to  seek  a  wife.  They're  rough  yet,  for  I  haven't  had 
time  to  pass  the  smoothing-iron  over  them.  Cut  I'll  work 


DIFFERENT   PHILOSOPHIES   OF   LOVE. 

'em  out  in  ship-shape  yet,  and  make  a  spiggot  or  spoil  a 
horn.  Now,  don't  you  begin  to  find  fault,  and  stop  me, 
whenever  you  fancy  there's  a  hitch  in  the  verse.  I'll  bring 
it  all  right  when  I  turn  in  to  smoothing  out." 

William  Calvert  gave  the  required  assurance ;  and,  with 
few  more  preliminaries  —  for  Ned  Hinkley  was  a  down 
right,  to-the-purpose,  matter-of-fact  fellow  —  with  little  non 
sense  or  conceit  about  him,  a*id  no  affectations  —  he  recited, 
or  rather  chanted,  the  following  rude  ballad,  which,  for  the 
backwoods  muse,  Calvert  was  inclined  to  think  a  very  cred 
itable  performance  ;  and  we  quite  agree  with  him,  and  could 
wish  to  see  it  married  to  corresponding  harmonies  by  some 
such  priest  in  music  as  Mr.  Russell : — 

i. 

"  You  ask  me  why  I  love  her — 

Why  my  heart,  no  longer  free, 
is  no  more  a  winged  rover, 

Like  the  forest-bird  or  bee  : 
Ah !  love  still  hath  its  season, 

For  the  heart  as  for  the  tree ; 
Would  you  have  a  better  reason, 
Then  my  love  loves  me ! 

I  know  it  well,  I  know  it  — 
My  love  loves  me  ! 

n. 

"  Yon  say  she  is  not  beautiful, 
And  it  may  be  so  to  you ; 
But  she's  very  fond  and  dutiful, 
And  she's  very  kind  and  true : 
And  there's  beauty  in  the  tenderness 

That  every  eye  can  see, 
And  something  more  than  loveliness 
In  the  love  she  feels  for  mo  1 
I  know  it  well,  &c. 

in. 

'"  She's  no  strong-minded  woman, 

And  in  weighty  things  unwise ; 
But  a  loving  heart,  all  human, 
*  Is  to  me  :v  dearer  prize : 


364  BEAUCHAMPE. 

And  there's  a  sovereign  wisdom 

In  much  loving,  do  you  see ; 
And  a  pure  young  soul,  in  a  loving  breast, 

Makes  a  woman  wise  for  me  1 
I  know  it  well,  &c. 

IV. 

•"'  You  may  talk  of  stately  damsels, 

With  keen  wit  and  manners  fine  — 
But  a  true  young  heart's  affections 

Are  the  jewels  dear  to  mine ! 
And  I  own  enough  of  splendor, 
When  her  loving  eyes  I  see ; 
And  I  hear  sufficient  wisdom, 
When  she  murmurs  love  to  me ! 
I  know  it  well,  &c. 

v. 

"  You  may  try  her  faith,  and  tell  her 

Of  a  prouder  suitor  still  — 
One  whose  name  and  wealth  may  bring  her 

To  whatever  state  she  will ; 
That  I've  naught  to  boast  of  power  — 

Neither  wealth  nor  fame  —  yet  she 
Will  smile  —  so  well  I  know  her  — 
And  still  give  her  lore  to  me  ! 
I  know  it  well,  &c." 

"There — you  have  it!  1ST ow,  that's  what  I  call  good 
sense,  Willie  Calvert,  and  no  bad  poetry  either." 

"It  is  positively  beautiful,  Ned,  and  contains  more  of 
the  true  philosophy  of  love  and  marriage  than  half  the  trea 
tises  ever  written.  Positively,  Xcd,  you  surprise  me  ! 
Your  improvement  is  prodigious.  You  must  set  up  the 
poetical  sign.  Were  you,  now,  in  some  of  the  great  cities, 
following  up  some  of  the  popular  singers,  you  could  have 
that  ballad  united  to  music  which  would  make  your  name 
famous." 

"I  thought  you'd  like  it,  Willie  —  I  knew  you  would. 
It  is  a  good  ballad,  Willie  —  very  good  ;  and  it's  true,  Wil 
lie.  Sallie  Bernard  deserves  it  all  She's  the  very  woman 
of  the  verses."  * 


DIFFERENT    PHILOSOPHIES   OP   LOVE.  365 

u  And  she  has  accepted  you,  Ned  ?" 

"  On  the  fifteenth  day  of  the  very  next  November,  Willie, 
we  go  into  cohoot  for  life  —  God  willing,  and  weather  per 
mitting." 

William  Calvert  warmly  congratulated  his  kinsman,  and 
closed  the  speech  with  a  deep  sigh  from  the  very  bottom 
of  his  heart. 

"  Don't  sigh,  William.  Your  time  will  come  yet.  Ah  ! 
if  you  had  only  fancied  some  such  true,  sweet,  humble- 
hearted,  and  devoted  girl  as  Sallie,  instead  of  that  proud, 
great-eyed,  outlawed  woman,  Margaret  Cooper — " 

"  Hush,  hush,  Ned!  —  name  her  not !" 

The  other  muttered  something  more,  no  doubt  expressive 
of  the  indignation  which  he  felt  at  the  treatment  his  cousin 
had  received  from  Margaret  Cooper.  The  good  fellow  had 
never  admired  that  damsel.  He  was,  in  truth,  afraid  of 
her.  She  was  the  only  person  that  had  ever  fairly  awed 
him  into  distance  and  apprehension.  While  he  still  mut 
tered,  William  .Calvert  said  :— 

"  Open  that  desk,  Ned,  and  hand  me  the  book  in  a  blue 
cover  which  you  will  find  in  it." 

This  was  done. 

"  I,  too,  have  written  some  verses  lately,  Ned,  which 
somewhat  relate  to  my  own  affections.  They  are,  by  no 
means,  so  good  as  yours,  but  they  will  enforce  my  plea  to 
you  for  forbearance  in  reference  to  Margaret." 

And,  without  further  word,  William  read  the  following 
apostrophe : — 

"  Speak  not  the  name,  in  scorn  or  blame, 
Nor  link  her  thought  with  aught  of  shame, 
Nor  ask  of  me,  the  guilt  to  see 
That  tore  my  blossom  from  the  tree ! 

"  We  may  not  crush  the  thought,  or  hush 
The  tale  that  still  compels  the  blush  : 
Bat  we  may  chide  the  speech,  and  hide 
The  shame,  that  else  would  torture  pride  ! 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Deep  in  the  heart,  a  thing  apart, 
We  shrine  the  memory  of  the  smart ; 
And  only  gaze  on  happier  days, 
When  Love  and  Pride  could  gladly  prais* 

"  There  let  me  hold,  nor  cheap  nor  cold, 
The  image  shrined  I  loved  of  old  ; 
There  let  me  know  the  charm,  the  glow, 
And  not  the  shame,  the  guilt,  the  wo  ! 

"  Beneath  that  spell,  still  let  her  dwell, 
Pure,  bright,  as  when  I  loved  so  well  — 
Where,  haply  taught,  the  older  thought 
Can  see  of  fall  or  frailty  naught. 

"  With  Love  for  guest,  the  faithful  breast 
Shuts  out  all  entrance  to  the  rest, 
And  asks  no  more,  from  Memory's  store, 
Than  what  the  heart  can  still  adore. 

"  Oh !  when  she  grew,  no  more  in  view, 
The  starlike  thing  that  once  I  knew, 
I  deemed  her  fled,  I  wept  her  dead  — 
Not  frail,  not  shamed,  but  lost  instead. 

"  Her  fall,  though  fraught  with  grief,  has  taught 
Love's  lesson  to  the  sterner  thought ; 
And  Grief's  worst  moan  now  takes  its  tone 
From  what  young  Memories  loved  alone  !" 


a  Ah !  Willie,  that's  a  poetical  huckleberry  above  my 
sour  rhyming  persimmon.  How  well  you  do  those  things  ! 
Why,  that's  a  sort  of  treble-shotted  verse.  Now,  those 
cursed  rhymes  won't  come  to  me  when  I  call  for  'em !  — 
They  are  as  obstinate  as  those  abominable  spirits  of  '  the 
vasty  deep'  that  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Mr.  Glendower.  You 
must  help  me,  Willie,  to  polish  my  ballad,  before  I  send  it 
to  Sallie  Bernard." 

"  Don't  touch  it,  Ned  ;  it  needs  no  polishing.  It  is  as 
nearly  perfect  as  you  can  make  it.  Its  very  carelessness 
is  in  its  favor  as  a  song.  It  shows  it  to  be  an  outpouring, 
a  gushing  upward,  of  the  fancy,  which  is  the  true  proof  of 
a  good  thing  for  music.  No,  no  !  don't  touch  it.  Its  sim- 


DIFFERENT    PHILOSOPHIES   OF   LOVE. 

plicity  is  its  secret.  One  sees  that  the  art  has  been  entirely 
subservient  to  Nature,  as  it  always  should  be  in  such  things. 
But,  go  and  ramble  now,  Ned,  and  leave  me  for  a  while  to 
slumber.  Your  talk  and  my  own,  with  such  subjects  as  we 
have  been  dealing  with,  have  left  me  a  little  too  much  ex 
cited.  Go,  and  write  to  Sallie." 

"  'Gad !  if  she  were  here !"  cried  the  tall  fellow,  stretch 
ing  out  his  arms  as  if  to  embrace  the  universe  — 

" If  she  were  only  here  —  smack!"  And,  so  saying,  he 
disappeared. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER   XXXVH. 

THE   MEETING. 

"  And  do  we  meet  again, 

After  that  mournful  parting  !     Both  how  changed ; 
You  with  new  pinions  —  mine  all  soiled  and  broken !" 

IT  was  when  William  Calvert  had  regained  his  legs  and 
began  to  resume  his  customary  vacations,  that  Ned  H ink- 
ley  suddenly  made  hie  appearance,  one  day,  almost  bursting 
with  excitement.  The  story  of  the  Beauchampes  had 
reached  his  ears ;  the  marriage  of  Margaret  Cooper  with 
Beauchampe,  and  the  subsequent  murder  of  Colonel  Sharpe. 
He  was  the  first  to  re're^l  the  whole  tragedy  to  the  Cal- 
vorts. 

It  was  a  story  to  make  them  gloomy  enough  —  to  strike 
them  into  silence.  When  they  could  speak  of  the  subject, 
it  was  only  in  language  so  inadequate  that  the  topic  was 
dropped  as  by  mutual  consent. 

"  Can  we  do  anything  for  them  ?"  was  the  question  of 
William  Calvert. 

It  was  one  which  all  parties  strove  to  answer  but  in 
vain. 

Ned  Hinkley  alone  lingered  over  the  subject. 

"  It  wao  her  doings,  all.  She,  no  doubt,  beguiled  the 
youn?  fool  into  marriage.  She  prompted  him  to  avenge 
her  diohon  r  on  the  head  of  Sharpe.  I  would  have  done  it 
myself.  Vita  half  an  opportunity,  but  I  would  have  shot  my 
self  sooner  lhari  received  the  reward." 


THE   MEETING.  369 

William  Calvert  rebuked  the  speech  in  his  sternest  man 
ner,  and  Ned  Hinkley  rode  off,  happy  in  the  prospect  of  a 
wife  who  was  not  a  strong-minded  woman.  He  left  the  two 
Calverts  to  brood  together  over  the  melancholy  narrative 
which  they  had  heard. 

We  have  already  formed  a  sufficient  idea  of  the  dwelling 
which  William  Calvert  occupied  —  a  dwelling  in  just  corre 
spondence  with  his  improved  fortunes.  The  reader  will 
please  go  with  us  while  we  re-enter  it.  Ned  Hinkley  has 
been  gone  some  two  hours.  We  ascend  the  neat  and  always 
well-swept  porch,  and  pass  through  the  common  hall  into 
the  parlor.  It  has  now  but  a  single  occupant.  Old  Calvert 
is  there  alone.  His  adopted  son  has  retired  to  his  cham 
ber.  He  broods  alone  on  the  fate  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and 
of  the  wretched  young  man  to  whom  she  has  been  a  fate. 
The  old  man  broods  also,  sadly  too  on  the  same  subject, 
but  he  is  so  happy  in  his  own  protege,  that  his  mind  docs 
not  yield  itself  with  any  intensity,  to  the  case  of  other  par 
ties,  no  matter  what  their  futures.  And  this  is  a  law  of  our 
nature,  else  we  should  suffer  unprotitably  from  those  afflic 
tions,  to  which  we  can  offer  no  relief. 

Old  Calvert  has  become  older  since  we  last  painted  his 
portrait.  His  hair  has  grown  even  more  silvery  and  thin 
and  his  forehead  whiter,  more  capacious,  more  polished. 
Tn  other  respects,  however,  he  seems  to  have  undergone  but 
little  change.  His  skin  is  quite  as  smooth  as  ever ;  but 
little  wrinkled  ;  the  crows  have  not  trampled  very  vigor 
ously  about  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  His  heart  is  compara 
tively  at  ease;  his  eye  is  bright  as  of  old  —  nay,  even 
brighter  than  when  we  last  saw  it  dilating  over  the  valley 
of  Charlemont :  and,  perhaps,  with  reason.  His  warmest 
hopes  have  been  gratified  ;  his  worst  doubts  dissipated  ;  his 
neart  has  become  uplifted.  He  has  realized  the  pride  of  a 
iather  without  suffering  the  trials  and  apprehensions  of  one  ; 
aiid  with  heart  and  body  cquall/  in  health,  he  is  still  young 

for  a  gentle  spirit  in  age,  is  not  a  bad  beginning  of  the 
16* 


370  BEAUCHAMPE. 

soul's  immortality.  He  owes  this  state  of  mind  and  body, 
to  a  contemplative  habit  acquired  in  youth  ;  to  the  presence 
of  a  nice  governing  sense  of  justice,  and  to  that  abstinence 
which  would  have  justified  in  him  the  brag  of  good  old 
Adam,  in  u  As  You  Like  It  :"— 

"  For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood  ; 
Nor  did  not,  with  wibashful  forehead  woo, 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility  ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty  but  kindly." 

The  old  man  sits  in  the  snug,  well-cushioned  armchair, 
with  his  eyes  cast  upward.  A  smile  mantles  upon  his  face. 
His  glance  rests  upon  a  portrait  of  his  favorite  ;  and  as  he 
gazes  upon  the  well-limned  and  justly-drawn  features  —  and 
as  the  mild  and  speaking  eye  seems  to  answer  to  his  own 
—  the  unconscious  words  tremble  out  from  his  lips  !  Good 
old  man  ! — he  recalls  the  early  lessons  that  he  gave  the 
boy;  how  kindly  they  were  taken — with  what  readiness 
they  were  acquired  ;  and  the  sweet  humility  which  followed 
most  of  his  rebukes.  Then,  he  renews  the  story  of  the  first 
lessons  in  law — his  own  struggles  and  defeats  he  recalls  — 
only,  as  it  would  seem,  to  justify  the  exultation  which  an 
nounces,  under  his  guidance,  the  better  fortunes  of  the 
youth. 

And  thus  soliloquizing,  he  rises,  and  mounting  a  chair, 
dusts  the  picture  with  his  handkerchief,  with  a  solicitude  that 
lias  seen  a  speck  upon  the  cheek,  and  fancies  a  fly  upon  the 
hair  !  This  was  a  daily  task,  performed  unconsciously,  and 
under  the  same  course  of  spiriting  ! 

While  thus  engaged  a  servant  enters  and  speaks.  Ho 
answers,  but  without  any  thought  of  what  he  is  saying. 
The  servant  disappears,  and  the  door  is  re-opened.  The 
old  man  is  still  busy  at  the  heart-prompted  duty.  His  lips 
are  equally  busy  in  coating  u;x>n  the  merits  of  his  favorite. 
He  still  wipes  and  rewipes  the  picture  ;  draws  ba.ck  to  ei 


THE   MEETING.  371 

amine  the  outline ;  comments  upon  eye  and  forehead ;  and 
dreams  not,  the  while,  what  eye  surveys  his  toils  —  what  ear 
is  listening  to  the  garrulous  eulogium  that  is  dropping  from 
his  lips.  The  intruder  is  Margaret  Cooper — Mrs.  Beau- 
champe  we  should  have  said  —  but  for  a  silent  preference 
for  the  former  name,  for  which  we  can  give  ao  reason  and 
will  offer  no  excuse. 

She  stands  in  silence  —  she  watches  the  labor  of  the  good 
old  man  with  mixed  but  not  unpleasant  feelings.  She  rec 
ognises  him  at  a  glance.  She  does  not  mistake  the  features 
of  that  portrait  which  exacts  his  care.  She  gazes  on  that, 
too,  with  a  very  melancholy  interest.  The  features,  though 
the  same,  are  yet  those  of  another.  The  expression  of  the 
face  is  spiritualized  and  lifted.  It  is  the  face  of  William 
Hinkley  —  true — but  not  the  face  of  the  rustic,  whom  once 
she  knew  beneath  that  name.  The  salient  points  of  feature 
are  subdued.  The  roughness  has  disappeared,  and  is  suc 
ceeded  by  the  entreating  sweetness  and  placid  self-subjection 
which  shows  that  the  moulding  hand  of  the  higher  civiliza 
tion  has  been  there.  It  is  William  Ilinkley,  the  gentleman 
—  the  man  of  thought,  and  of  the  world  —  whose  features 
meet  her  eye ;  and  a  sigh  involuntarily  escapes  her  lips. 
That  sigh  is  the  involuntary  utterance  of  the  self-reproach 
which  she  feels.  Her  conscience  smites  her  for  the  past. 
She  thinks  of  the  young  man,  worthy  and  gentle,  whom  she 
slighted  for  another — and  that  other!  —  She  remembers 
the  youth's  goodness  —  his  fond  devotedness ;  and,  forget 
ting  in  what  respect  he  erred,  she  wonders  at  herself,  with 
feelings  of  increasing  humiliation,  that  she  should  have  re 
pulsed  and  treated  him  so  harshly.  But,  in  those  days  she 
was  mad !  It  is  her  only  consolation  that  she  now  thinks 
so. 

He.r  sigh  arrests  the  attention  of  the  old  man  and 
awakens  him  from  his  grateful  abstraction.  He  turns,  be 
holds  the  lady,  and  muttering  something  apologetically 
about  the  rapid  accumulation  of  dust  and  cobwebs,  he  de- 


872  •      BEAUCHAMPE. 

scends  from  the  chair.    A  step  nearer  to  the  visitor  informs 
him  who  she  is.     He  starts,  and  trembles. 

"  You,  Miss  Cooper  :  can  it  be  ?" 

"  It  is,  Mr.   Calvert ;   but   there   is   some   mistake.     I 
sought  for  Colonel  Calvert,  the  lawyer." 

"  My  son  —  no  mistake  at  all — be  seated,  Miss  Cooper." 

"Your  son,  Mr.  Calvert?" 

"  Yes,  my  son  —  your  old   acquaintance — but  here  he 
is!"— 

William  Calvert,  the  younger,  had  now  joined  the  party. 
His  entrance  had  been  unobserved.  He  stood  in  the  door 
way — his  eye  fixed  upon  the  object  of  his  former  passion. 
His  cheeks  were  very  pale ;  his  features  were  full  of  emo 
tion.  Margaret  turned  as  the  old  man  spoke,  and  their 
eyes  encountered.  What  were  their  several  emotions  then  ? 
Who  shall  tell  them  ?  What  scenes,  what  a  story,  did  that 
one  single  glance  of  recognition  recall.  How  mucli  strife 
and  bitterness  —  what  overwhelming  passions  —  and  what 
defeat,  what  shame,  and  sorrow  to  the  one  ;  and  to  the 
other — what  triumph  over  pain — what  victory  even  from 
defeat.  To  her,  from  pride,  exultation,  and  estimated  tri 
umph,  had  arisen  shame,  overthrow,  and  certain  fear. 
Despair  was  not  yet — not  altogether.  To  the  other,  "  out 
of  the  eater  came  forth  meat,  and  out  of  the  strong  came 
forth  sweetness."  From  his  defeat  he  was  strengthened  ; 
and  from  the  very  overthrow  of  his  youthful  passion,  had 
grown  the  vigor  of  his  manhood. 

The  thought  of  William  Calvert,  as  he  surveyed  the 
woman  of  his  first  love,  was  a  natural  one:— -"  Had  she 
been  mine  !" — but  with  this  thought  he  did  not  now  repine 
at  the  baffled  dream  and  desire  of  his  boyhood.  If  the 
memory  and  reflection  were  not  sweet,  at  least  the  bitter 
was  one  to  which  his  lips  had  become  reconciled  by  time. 
Recalling  the  mournful  memory  of  the  past,  his  sorrow  was 
now  rather  for  her  than  for  himself.  His  regret  was  uot 
that  he  had  been  denied,  bu;  that  she  had  fa'tlcc.  He  rec- 


THE    MEETING.  373 

ollected  the  day  of  her  pride.  He  recalled  the  flashes  of 
that  eagle  spirit,  which,  while  it  won  his  admiration r  had 
spurned  his  prayer.  The  bitter  shame  which  folded, 
when,  by  crawling,  the  serpent  had  reached  the  summits 
where  her  proud  soul  kept  in  an  eyry  of  its  own,  oppressed 
his  soul  as  he  gazed  upon  the  still  beautiful,  still  majestic 
being  before  him.  She  too  had  kept  something  of  that  no 
ble  spirit  which  was  hers  before  she  fell.  We  have  seen 
how  she  had  sustained  herself:  — 

"  Not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  th'  excess 
Of  glory  obscured  ;" — 

and  still,  as  the  youth  gazed,  he  wondered  —  and  as  he  re 
membered,  he  could  not  easily  restrain  the  impulse  once 
more  to  sink  in  homage.  But  all  her  story  was  now  known 
to  him.  Of  Sharpe's  murder  he  was  aware ;  and  that  the 
wife  of  the  murderer  was  the  same  Margaret  Cooper,  in 
whose  behalf  he  had  himself  met  the  betrayer  in  single  com 
bat,  he  was  apprized  by  a  private  letter  from  Covington. 

While  he  thus  stood  beholding,  with  such  evident  tokens 
of  emotion,  the  hapless  woman  who  had  been  the  cause, 
and  the  victim,  equally,  of  so  much  disaster — what  were 
her  reflections  at  the  sight  of  him  ?  At  first,  when  their 
eyes  encountered,  and  she -could  no  longer  doubt  the  iden 
tity  of  the  Colonel  Calvert  whom  she  sought,  with  the  Wil 
liam  Hinkley  whom  she  had  so  long  and  yet  so  little  known, 
her  color  became  heightened  —  her  form  insensibly  rose, 
and  her  eye  resumed  something  of  that  ancient  eagle-look 
of  defiance,  which  was  the  more  natural  expression  of  her 
proud  and  daring  character.  She  felt,  in  an  instant,  all  the 
difference  between  the  present  and  the  past ;  between  his 
fortune  and  her  own  —  and,  naturally  assuming  that  the 
same  comparison  was  going  on  in  his  mind,  necessarily 
g  to  his  exaltation  at  her  expense,  she  was  prepared, 


374  BEAUCHAMPE. 

«rith  equal  look  and  word,  to  resent  the  insolence  of  his 
triumph. 

But  when,  at  a  second  glance,  she  beheld  the  unequivo 
cal  grief  which  his  looks  expressed  —  when  she  saw  still, 
to  at  the  fire  in  his  heart  had  not  been  quenched — that  the 
feeling  there  had  nothing  in  it  of  triumph — but  all  of  a 
deep  abiding  sorrow  and  a  genuine  commiseration,  her  man 
ner  changed — the  bright,  keen  expression  parted  from  her 
glance,  and  her  cheek  grew  instantly  pale.  But  her  firm 
ness  and  presence  of  mind  returned  sooner  than  his.  She 
advanced  and  extended  to  him  her  hand. 

The  manner  was  so  frank,  so  confiding,  that  it  seemed  to 
atone  for  all  the  past.  It  evidently  was  intended  to  convey 
the  only  atonement  which,  in  her  situation,  she  could  possi 
bly  oner.  It  said  much  more  than  words,  and  his  heart  was 
satisfied.  lie  took  her  hand  and  conducted  her  to  a  seat. 
He  was  silent.  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  he  with 
held  the  expression  of  his  tears. 

"  You  know  me,  Colonel  Calvert,"  sne  at  length  said.  "  I 
see  you  know  me." 

"  Could  you  think  otherwise,  Margaret  ?"  he  succeeded 
in  replying.  "  Could  I  forget  ?" 

"  No  !  not  forget,  perhaps,"  she  returned  ;  "  but  you 
Beem  not  to  understand  me.  My  person,  of  course,  you 
know  —  who  I  was — but  not  who  I  am  ?" 

"  Yes  —  even  that  too  I  know." 

"  Then  something  is  spared  me  !"  she  replied  with  the 
sigh  of  one  who  is  relieved  from  a  painful  duty. 

"I  know  the  whole  sad  story,  Margaret — Mrs.  Beau- 
champe.  Can  I  serve  you,  Margaret — is  it  for  this  you 
8eek  me  ?" 

"  It  is." 

"  I  am  ready.  I  will  do  what  I  can.  But  it  will  be  ne 
cessary  to  see  Mr.  Beauchampe." 

"  Cat  not  that  be  avoi<i-"i  ?  I  confess,  I  come  to  you 
without  his  sanction  or  authority.  He  is  unwilling  to  seek 


THE    MEETING.  375 

assistance  from  the_law1  and  proposes  either  to  argue  his 
own  case,  or  to  Teave  it,  unargued,  to  the  just  sense  of  the 
community." 

The  youth  mused  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  before  he 
replied.  At  length  :  — 

"I  will  not  hide  from  you,  Margaret  —  forgive  me  — 
Mrs.  Beauchampe  —  the  danger  in  which  your  husband 
stands.  The  frequency  of  such  deeds  as  that  for  which  he 
is  indicted,  has  led  to  a  general  feeling  on  the  part  of  the 
community,  that  the  laws  must  be  rigorously  enforced. 
But—" 

She  interrupted  him  with  some  vehemence :  u  But  the 
provocation  of  the  villain  he  slew — " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  She  trembled,  for  the  truth  had 
been  revealed  in  her  inadvertence. 

"  What  have  I  said !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Only  what  shall  be  as  secret  with  me,  Margaret,  as  with 
yourself — " 

"  Oh,  more  so,  I  trust !"  she  ejaculated. 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself  with  this.  Understand  me. 
It  was  to  gather  from  Mr.  Beauchampe  the  whole  truth, 
that  I  desired  to  see  him.  To  do  him  justice,  I  must  know 
from  him  what  may  be  known  by  others,  and  which  might 
do  him  hurt.  It  is  to  prepare  for  the  worst,  that  I  would 
seek  to  know  the  worst.  I  will  return  with  you  to  Frank 
fort.  I  will  see  him.  He,  as  a  lawyer,  will  better  under 
stand  my  purpose  than  yourself." 

"Ah!  I  thank  you — I  thank  you,  William  Hinkley.  I 
jfeel  that  I  do  not  deserve  this  at  your  hands.  You  are 
javenged  —  amply  avenged  — for  all  the  past!" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Memories,  bitter 
memories,  were  rushing  in  upon  her  soul. 

"  Speak  not  thus,  Margaret,"  replied  the  youth  in  sub 
dued  and  trembling  accents.  "  I  need  no  such  atonement 
as  this.  Believe  me,  to  know  what  you  were,  and  should 
have  been,  Margaret,  and  see  you  thus,  brings  to  me  no 


876  BEAUCHAMPE. 

feelings  but  those  of  shame  and  sorrow.  Such  promise  — 
such  pride  of  promise,  Margaret — " 

"Ah!  indeed!  such  pride  —  such  pride!  —  and  what  a 
fall !  —  there  could  not  be  a  worse,  William — surely  not  a 
worse ! — " 

"  But  there  is  hope  still,  Margaret — there  is  hope." 

"  You  will  save  him !"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"  I  trust,"  said  he,  "  that  there  is  hope  for  him.  I  will 
try  to  save  him." 

"I  know  you  will  —  I  know  you  will!  But,  even  then, 
there  is  no  hope.  I  feel  like  a  wreck.  Even  if  we  founder 
not  in  this  storm  —  even  if  you  save  us,  William  —  it  will 
be  as  if  some  once  good  ship,  shattered  and  shivered,  was 
carried  into  port  by  some  friendly  prow  —  only  to  be  aban 
doned  as  then  no  longer  worth  repair.  These  storms  have 
shattered  me,  William  —  shattered  me  quite!  I  am  no 
longer  what  I  was — strong,  proud,  confident.  I  fear, 
sometimes,  that  my  brain  will  go  wild.  I  feel  that  my 
mind  is  failing  me^  I  speak  now  with  an  erring  tongue. 
I  scarcely  know  what  I  say.  But  I  speak  with  a  faith  in 
you.  I  believe,  William,  you  were  always  true." 

"  Ah,  had  you  but  believed  so  then,  Margaret ! — " 

"  I  did  !  I  did  believe  so  !" 

"  Ah,  could  it  have  been,  Margaret!  —  could  you  have 
only  thought — " 

"No  more — say  no  more!"  she  exclaimed,  hurriedly, 
with  a  sort  of  shudder.  "  Say  no  more  !" 

"  Had  it  been,"  he  continued,  musingly  — "  could  it  \\i\ve 
been,  there  had  been  now  no  wreck.  Neither  of  us  had 
felt  these  storms.  We  had  both  been  happy !" 

"No,  no!  speak  not  thus,  William  Hinkley!"  she  ex 
claimed,  rising,  and  putting  on  a  stern  look  and  freezing 
accent.  "The  past  should  be  —  is  —  nothing  now  to  us. 
Nor  could  it  have  been  as  you  say.  There  wa,s  -a.  fate  to 
humble  me;  and  1  am  here  now  to  sue  for  your  succor. 
You  have  nothing  to  deplore.  You  have  fortune  which  you 


THE   MEETING.  377 

could  not  hope,  fame  which  you  did  not  seek  —  everything 
to  make  you  proud,  and  keep  you  happy.'* 

"  I  am  neither  proud  nor  happy,  Margaret.     You — " 
"  Enough !"   she   exclaimed.     "  You   have   promised  to 
strive  in  his  behalf.     Save  him,  William  Hinkley —  and  if 
prayer  of  mine  can  avail  before  Heaven,  you  will  feel  this 
want  no  longer.     You  must  be  happy  !" 

"  Happy,  Margaret?  —  I  do  not  hope  for  it!" 
She  extended  him  her  hand.  He  took  it,  and  instantly 
released  it,  though  not  before  a  scalding  tear  had  fallen 
from  his  eyes  upon  it.  Further  farewell  than  this  they  had 
none.  She  looked  round  for  old  Mr.  Calvert,  but  he  was 
QO  longer  in  the  apartment. 


H78  BEAUCHAMPB. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

"  GUILTY  !» 

WE  pass  over  the  interviews  between  Beauchampo  and 
William  Calvert.  At  none  of  these  was  the  wile  present. 
The  former  was  satisfied  to  accept  the  services  of  one  who 
approached  him  with  the  best  manners  of  the  gentleman, 
and  the  happy  union,  in  his  address,  of  the  sage  and  law 
yer ;  and  he  freely  narrated  to  him  all  the  particulars  of 
that  deed  for  which  he  was  held  to  answer.  Calvert  was 
put  in  possession  of  all  that  was  deemed  necessary  to  the 
defence,  or  rather  of  all  that  Beauchampe  knew. 

But,  either  the  latter  did  not  know  all,  or  perjury  was 
an  easily-bought  commodity  upon  his  trial.  There  were 
witnesses  to  swear  to  his  footsteps,  to  his  voice,  his  face, 
his  words,  his  knife  and  clothes ;  though  he  believed  that 
no  living  eye,  save  that  of  the  Omniscient,  beheld  him  in 
his  approaches  to  commit  the  deed.  The  knife  which  struck 
the  blow  was  buried  in  the  earth.  The  clothes  which  he 
wore  were  sunk  in  the  river.  Yet  a  knife  was  produced 
on  the  trial  as  that  which  had  pierced  the  heart  of  the  vic 
tim  ;  and  witnesses  identified  him  in  garments  which  he  no 
longer  possessed,  and  in  which,  according  to  his  belief,  they 
had  never  seen  him  ! 

It  is  possible  that  he  deceived  himself.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  he  wan  just  enough  of  the  maniac,  while  car 
rying  but  the  monomania  which  made  him  so,  to  be  con 
scious  of  little  else  but  the  one  stirring,  all-absorbing 


GUILTY !' 


379 


passion  in  his  miiid.  Such  a  man  walks  the  streets,  and  \ 
sees  no  form  save  that  which  occupies  his  imagination ; 
speaks  his  purpose  in  soliloquy  which  his  own  ears  never 
heed ;  fancies  himself  alone,  though  surrounded  by  specta- 
tators.  His  microcosm  is  within.  He  has,  while  the  lead 
ing  idea  is  busy  in  his  soul,  no  consciousness  .of  any  world 
without. 

Could  we  record  the  argument  of  Calvert — analyze  for 
the  reader  the  voluminous  and  not  always  consorting  testi 
mony,  as  he  analyzed  it  for  the  court — and  repeat,  word 
for  word,  and  look  for  look,  the  exquisite  appeal  which  he 
offered  to  the  jury  —  we  should  be  amply  justified  in  occu 
pying,  in  these  pages,  the  considerable  space  which  such  a 
record  would  require,.  But  we  dare  not  make  the  attempt ; 
the  more  particularly,  as,  however  able  and  admirable,  the 
speech  failed  of  its  effect.  Eyes  were  wet,  sighs  were  au 
dible  at  its  close ;  but  the  jury,  if  moved  by  the  eloquence 
of  the  advocate,  were  obdurate,  so  far  as  concerned  the 
prisoner.  The  verdict  was  rendered  "  Guilty  !"  and,  with 
the  awful  word,  Mrs.  Eeauchampe  started  to  her  feet,  and 
accused  herself  to  the  court,  not  only  of  participating  in 
the  offence,  but  of  prompting  it.  It  was  supposed  to  be  a 
merciful  forbearance  that  Justice  permitted  herself  to  be 
come  deaf,  as  well  as  blind,  on  this  occasion.  Her  wild 
asseverations  were  not  employed  against  her  ;  and  she  failed 
of  the  end  she  sought — to  unite  her  fate,  at  the  close,  with 
that  of  him  to  whom,  as  she  warned  him  in  the  beginning, 
she  herself  was  a  fate. 

But,  though  she  failed  to  provoke  Justice  to  prosecution, 
aiie  was  yet  not  to  be  baffled  in  her  object.  Her  resolution 
^  as  taken,  to  share  the  doom  of  her  husband.  For  her  he 
had  incurred  the  judgment  of  the  criminal,  and  her  nature 
-vras  too  magnanimous  to  think~of~curviving  him.  She  re 
solved  upon  death  in  her  own  case,  and  at  the  same  time 
resolved  on  defeating,  in  hi?,  that  brutal  exposure  which 
attends  the  execution  of  the  laws  But  of  her  purpose  she 


380  BEAUCHAMPE. 

said  nothing — not  even  to  him  whom  it  most  concerned. 
With  that  stern  directness  of  purpose  which  formed  eo  dis 
tinguishing  a  trait  in  her  character,  she  made  her  prepara 
tions  in  secret.  The  indulgence  of  the  authorities  permit 
ted  her  to  see  her  husband  at  pleasure,  and  to  share  with 
him,  when  she  would,  the  sad  privilege  of  his  dungeon. 
This  indulgence  was  not  supposed  to  involve  any  risk,  since 
a  guard  was  designated  to  maintain  a  constant  watch  upon 
the  prisoner ;  and  it  does  not  seem  to  have  entered  into  the 
apprehensions  of  the  jailer  to  provide  against  any  danger 
except  that  of  the  convict's  escape. 

The  dungeon  of  the  condemned  was  a  close  cell,  the  only 
entrance  to  which  was  by  a  trap-door  from  above.  Escape 
from  this  place,  with  a  guard  in  the  upper  chamber,  was  not 
an  easy  performance,  nor  did  it  seem  to  enter  for  a  moment 
into  the  calculation  or  designs  of  either  of  the  Beauchnmpes. 
The  husband  was  prepared  to  die ;  and  the  solemn,  though 
secret  determination  of  the  wife,  had  prepared  her  also. 
The  former  considered  his  fate  with  the  feeling  of  a  martyr  ; 
and  every  word  of  the  latter  was  intended  to  confirm,  in 
his  mind,  this  strengthening  and  consoling  conviction.  The 
few  days  which  were  left  to  the  criminal  were  not  other 
wise  unsoothed  and  unlighted  from  without.  Friends  came 
to  him  in  his  dungeon,  and  strove,  with  the  diligence  of 
love,  to  convert  the  remaining  hours  of  his  life  into  profit 
able  capital  for  the  future  grand  investment  of  immortality. 
Religion  lent  her  aid  to  friendship ;  and,  whether  Beau- 
chain pc  did  or  did  not  persist  in  the  notion  that  the  crime 
for  which  he  stood  condemned  was  praiseworthy,  at  all 
events  he  was  persuaded  by  her  unremitting  cares  and  coun 
sels  that  he  was  a  sinner — sinning  in  a  thousand  respects. 
for  which  repentance  was  the  only  grand  remedy  which 
could  atone  to  God  for  the  wrongs  done,  and  left  unre 
paired,  to  man. 

Among  the  friends  who  now  constantly  sought  the  cell  of 
the  criminal,  William  Calvert  was  none  of  the  least  punctual 


"GUILTY!  331 

Beauchampe  became  very  fond  of  him,  and  felt,  in  a  short 
time,  the  vast  superiority  of  his  mind  and  character  over 
those  of  his  late  tutor.  The  wife,  meanwhile,  with  that 
fearless  frankness- which  knows  thoroughly  the  high  value  ^ 
of  the  most  superior  truth  —  for  truth  has  its  qualities  ana 
degrees,  though  each  may  be  intrinsically  pure — had  freely 
told  her  husband  the  whole  history  of  the  early  devotion 
of  William  Gal  vert,  when  she  knew  him  as  the  obscure  Wil 
liam  Hinkley  ;  how,  blinded  by  her  own  vanity,  and  the 
obscurity  to  which  the  very  modesty  of  the  young  rustic 
had  subjected  him,  she  despised  his  pretensions ;  and,  for 
the  homage  of  the  sly  serpent  by  whom  she  had  been  de 
ceived — beguiled  with  his  lying  tongue,  and  pleased  with 
his  gaudy  coat — had  slighted  the  superior  worth  of  the 
former,  and  treated  his  claims  with  a  scorn  as  little  de 
served  by  him  as  becoming  in  her.  Sometimes,  Beauchampe 
spoke  of  this  painful  past  in  the  history  of  his  wife  and  vis 
itor,  and  the  reference  now  did  not  seem  to  give  pain,  at 
least  to  the  former.  The  reason  was  good :  she  had  done 
with  the  past.  The  considerations  which  now  filled  her 
mind  were  all  of  a  superior  nature ;  and  she  listened  to  her 
husband,  even  when  he  spoke  on  this  theme  in  the  presence 
of  William  Calvert  himself,  with  an  unmoved  and  unabashed 
countenance.  The  latter  possessed  no  such  stoicism.  At 
such  moments  his  heart  beat  with  a  wildly-increased  rapidity 
of  pulsation,  and  he  felt  the  warm  flush  pass  over  his  checks 
as  vividly  and  quickly  now  as  in  the  days  of  his  first  youth 
ful  consciousness  of  love. 

It  was  the  evening  preceding  the  day  af  execution.  Tho 
dark  hours  were  at  hand.  The  guard  of  the  prison  had 
warned  the  visitors  to  depart.  The  divine  had  already 
gone.  The  drooping  sisters  of  Beauchampe  were  about  to 
go  for  the  night,  moaning  wildly  as  they  went,  in  anticipa 
tion  of  the  day  of  awful  moan  which  was  approaching.  Fond 
and  fervent,  and  very  sad,  was  the  parting,  though  for  the 
only,  which  the  condemned  gave  to  these  dear  twin 


3  BEAUCHAMPE. 

buds  of  his  affections.  It  was  a  pang  spared  to  him  thai 
Lis  poor  old  mother  was  too  sick  to  see  him.  "When  he 
thought  of  her,  and  of  the  unspeakable  misery  which  would 
be  hers  were  she  present,  he  felt  the  grief  lessened  which 
followed  from  the  thought  that  their  eyes  might  never  more 
encounter. 

-  But  the  sisters  went — all  went  but  William  Calvert, 
and  he  seemed  disposed  to  linger  to  the  last  permitted  mo 
ment.  His  thoughts  were  less  with  the  condemned  man 
than  with  the  wife.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  same 
object.  His  anxiety  and  surprise  increased  with  each  mo 
ment  of  his  gaze.  Whence  could  arise  that  strange  seren 
ity  which  appeared  in  her  countenance  ?  Where  did  she 
find  that  strength  which,  at  such  an  hour,  could  give  her 
composure  ?  Nor  was  it  serenity  and  composure  alone 
which  distinguished  her  air,  look,  and  carriage.  There 
was  a  holy  intentness,  a  sublime  decision  in  her  look,  which 
filled  him  with  apprehension.  He  knew  the  daring  of  her 
character — the  bold  disposition  which  had  always  possessed 
her  to  dare  the  dark  and  the  unknown  —  and  his  prescient 
conjecture  divined  her  intention. 

She  sat  behind  her  husband,  on  his  lowly  pallet.  Cal 
vert  occupied  a  stool  at  its  foot.  Beauchampe  had  been 
speaking  freely  with  all  his  visiters.  He  was  only  moved 
by  the  feeling  of  his  situation  on  separating  from  his  sis 
ters.  At  all  other  periods  he  was  tolerably  calm,  and 
sometimes  his  conversation  ran  into  playfulness.  When 
we  say  playfulness,  we  do  not  mean  to  be  understood  as 
intimating  his  indulgence  of  mere  fun  and  jest,  which  would 
have  been  as  inconsistent  with  his  general  character  as  with 
the  solemn  responsibility  of  his  situation.  But  there  was 
an  ease  of  heart  about  what  he  said  —  an  elastic  freedom  — 
which  insensibly  colored,  with  a  freshness  and  vitality,  the 
idea  which  he  uttered. 

"Sit  closer  to  me,  Anna,"  he  said  to  his  wife  —  "sit 
closer.  We  are  not  to  be  so  long  together,  that  we  can 


"  OUTLTY !"  383 

spare  these  moments.  We  have  no  time  for  distance  and 
formality.  Calvert  will  excuse  this  fondness,  however  an 
noying  it  might  seem  between  man  i;nd  wife  at  ordinary 
periods." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  as  she  drew  nigh,  and  passed  his 
arm  fondly  about  her  waist.  She  was  silent ;  and  Calvcrt, 
thinking  of  the  conjecture  which  had  been  awakened  in  his 
mind  by  the  deportment  of  the  wife,  was  too  full  of  serious 
and  startling  thoughts  to  be  altogether  assured  or  what 
Beauchampe  was  saying.  The  latter  continued,  after  a 
brief  pause,  by  a  reference  of  some  abruptness  to  the  past 
history  of  the  two  : — 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,  Anna, 
that  you  should  ever  have  refused  to  marry  our  friend  Cal 
vert.  My  days,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  latter  as  he  spoke 
— "  my  days  of  idle  speech  and  vain  flattery  are  numbered, 
Calvert ;  and  you  will  "do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  I 
am  not  the  man  to  waste  words  at  any  time  in  worthless 
compliment.  Certainly  I  will  not  now.  But,  since  I  have 
known  you,  I  feel  that  I  could  wish  to  know  no  more  desi 
rable  friend ;  and  how  my  wife  could  have  rejected  you  for 
any  other  person — I  care  not  whom  —  I  do  not  exclude 
myself — I  can  not  understand,  unless  by  supposing  that 
there  is  a  special  fate  in  such  matters,  by  which  our  beat 
judgments  are  set  at  naught,  and  our  wisest  plans  baffled 
Had  she  married  you,  Calvert — " 

"  Why  will  you  speak  of  it  ?"  said  Calvert,  with  an  ear 
nestness  of  tone  which  yet  faltered.  The  wife  was  still 
silent.  Beauchampe  answered : — 

"  Because  I  speak  as  one  to  whom  the  business  of  life  is 
over.  I  am  speaking  as  one  from  the  grave.  The  passions 
are  dumb  within  me.  The  strifes  are  over.  The  vain  deli 
cacies  of  society  seem  a  child's  play  to, me  now.  Besides, 
I  speak  regretfully.  For  her  sake,  how  much  better  had 
it  been !  Instead  of  being,  as  she  is  now,  the  wife  of  a 
convict,  doomed  to  a  dog's  death  ;  instead  of  the  long  strife 


BEAUCHl^fS. 

through  which  she  has  gone ;  instead  of  the  utter  waste 
of  that  proud  genius  which  might,  under  other  fortunes, 
have  taken  such  noUe  flights,  and  attained  such  a  noble 
eminence — " 

The  wife  interrupted  him  with  a  smile : — 

"  Ah,  Beaucharape,  you  are  supposing  that  the  world  has 
but  one  serpent  —  but  one  Alfred  Stevens!  The  eagle  in 
his  flight  may  escape  one  arrow,  but  who  shall  insure  him 
against  the  second  or  the  third  ?  I  suspect  that  few  per 
sons  at  the  end  of  life  —  of  a  long  life  —  looking  back,  with 
all  their  knowledge  and  experience,  could  recommence  the 
journey  and  find  it  any  smoother  or  safer  than  at  first.  He 
is  the  best  philosopher  who,  when  the  time  comes  to  die, 
can  wash  his  hands  of  life  the  soonest,  with  the  least  effort, 
and  dispose  his  robes  most  calmly  —  and  so  gracefully  — 
around  him.  Do  not  speak  of  what  I  have  lost,  and  of 
what  I  have  suffered.  Still  less  is  it  needful  that  you  should 
.'peak  of  our  friend's  affairs.  We  are  all  chosen,  I  suspect. 
Our  fortunes  are  assigned  us.  That  of  our  friend  was  never 
more  favorable  than  when  mine  prompted  my  refusal  of  his 
kind  offer.  I  was  not  made  for  him,  nor  he  for  me.  We 
iright  not  have  been  happy  together;  and  for  the  best  rea 
son,  since  I  was  too  blind  and  ignorant  to  see  what  I  should 
have  seen  —  that  the  very  humility  which  I  despised  in  him 
was  the  source  of  his  strength,  and  would  have  been  of  my 
security.  I  now  congratulate  him  that  I  was  blind  to  his 
merits.  JB.e  will  live ;  he  will  grow  stronger  with  each 
succseiing  day  ;  fortune  will  smile  upon  his  toils,  and  fame 
will  follow  them.  At  least,  we  will  pray,  Beauchampe,  that 
such  will  oe  the  case.  At  parting,  William  Hinkley  —  I 
can  not  call  you  by  the  other  name  now — at  parting,  for 
ever  —  believe  this  assurance.  You  shall  have  our  prayers 
and  blessings  —  such  as  they  arc  —  truly,  fondly,  my  friend, 
for  we  owe  much  to  your  help  and  sympathy." 

"  For    ever,    Margaret !  —  Why    should    you    say    for 
over  ?" 


"  GUILTY  !"  385 

Calvert  fastened  his  eyes  upon  her  as  she  spoke.  She 
met  the  glance  unmoved,  and  replied  :  — 

"  Will  it  not  be  for  ever  ?  To-morrow  which  deprives 
me  of  him,  deprives  me  of  the  world.  I  must  hide  from  it. 
I  have  no  more  business  with  it,  nor  it  with  me.  I  have 
still  some  sense  of  shame  —  some  feelings  of  sacred  sorrow 
—  which  I  should  be  loath  to  expose  to  its  busy  finger.  Is 
not  this  enough,  William  Calvert?" 

"  But  I  am  not  the  world.  Friends  you  will  still  need  ; 
my  good,  old  father— 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,  William  :  I  know  all  your 
goodness  of  heart,  and  thank  you  from  the  very  bottom  of 
mine.  Let  it  suffice  that,  should  I  need  a  friend  after  to 
morrow,  I  shall  seek  none  other  than  you." 

"  Margaret,"  said  William,  impressively,  "  you  can  not 
deceive  me.  I  know  your  object.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes  — 
in  those  subdued  tones.  I  am  sure  of  what  you  purpose." 

"  What  purpose  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?"  demanded  Bean- 
champe 

Before  he  could  be  answered  by  Calvert  the  wife  had 
spoken.  She  addressed  herself  to  the  latter. 

"  And  if  you  do  know  it,  William  Hinkley,  you  know  it 
only  by  the  conviction  in  your  own  heart  of  what,  if  not  un 
avoidable,  is  at  least  necessary.  Speak  not  of  it — give  it 
no  thought,  and  only  ask  of  yourself  what,  to  me,  to  such  a 
soul  as  mine,  would  be  life  after  to-morrow's  sun  has  set ! 
Go  novr  —  the  guard  calls.  You  will  see  us  in  the  morn 
ing." 

"  Margaret  —  for  your  soul's  sake  — 

The  expostulation  was  arrested  by  the  repeated  summons 
of  tin  guard,  The  wife  put  her  finger  on  her  lips  in  sign 
of  silence.  Calvert  prepared  to  depart,  but  could  not  for 
bear  whispering  in  her  ears  the  exhortation  which  he  had 
begun  to  speak  aloud.  She  heard  him  patiently  to  the 
end,  and  sweetly,  but  faintly  smiling,  she  shook  her  head, 

7 


386  BEAUCHAMPE. 

making  no  other  answer.  The  hoarse  voice  of  the  guard 
again  summoned  the  visitor,  who  reluctantly  rose  to  obey. 
He  shook  hands  with  Beauchampe,  and  Margaret  followed 
him  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  When  he  gave  her  his  hand 
she  carried  it  to  her  lips. 

"  God  bless  you,  William  Hinkley !"  she  murmured. 
"  You  are  and  have  been  a  noble  gentleman.  Remember 
me  kindly,  and  oh  !  forgive  me  that  I  did  you  wrong,  that 
I  did  not  do  justice  to  your  feelings  and  your  worth.  Per 
haps  it  was  Setter  that  I  did  not." 

"  Let  me  pray  to  you,  Margaret.  Do  not —  oh  !  do  not 
what  you  design.  Spare  yourself." 

"Ay,  William,  I  will!  Shame,  certainly,  the  bitter 
mock  of  the  many — the  silent  derision  of  the  few — deceit 
and  fraud  —  reproach  without  and  within  —  all  these  will  1 
spare  myself." 

"•  Come  !  come  !"  said  the  guard  gruffly,  from  above. 
u  will  you  never  be  done  talking  ?  Leave  the  gentleman  to 
hip  prayers.  His  time  is  short!" 

And  thus  they  parted  for  the  night. 


FATAL   PURPOSES. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

FATAL   PURPOSES. 

u  WHAT  did  Calvert  mean,  Anna,  when  he  said  he  know 
your  purpose  ?"  was  the  inquiry  of  Beauchainpo,  when  she 
returned  to  his  side;  "what  do  you  intend  ?  —  what  pur 
pose  have  you  ?" 

She  put  her  hand  upon  her  lips  in  sign  of  silence,  theu 
looked  up  to  the  trap-door,  which  the  guard  was  slowly 
engaged  in  lotting  down.  When  this  was  done,  she  ap 
proached  him,  and  drawing  a  vial  from  her  bosom  dis 
played  it  cautiously  before  his  eyes. 

"  For  me  !"  he  exclaimed — "  poison  !" 

A  sort  of  rapturous  delight  gathered  in  his  eyes  aer  he 
clutched  the  vial. 

"  Enough  for  both  of  us !"  was  the  answer.  "  It  is  laud 
anum." 

"  Enough  for  both,  Anna  !     Surely  you  can  not  mean— 

"  To  share  it  with  you,  my  husband.  To  die  with  you, 
as  you  die  for  me." 

"Not  so!  This  must  not  be.  Speak  not  —  think  not 
thus,  my  wife.  Such  a  thought  makes  me  wretched.  There 
is  no  need  that  you  should  die." 

"  Ay,  but  there  is,  Beaucliampc.  1  should  suffer  much 
worse  were  I  to  live.  Whore  could  I  live  ?  How  could  I 
live?  To  be  the  scorned,  and  the  slandered — to  provoke 
the  brutal  jest,  or  more  brutal  violence  of  the  fopling  and 
the  foul  !  For,  who  that  knows  my  story,  will  believe  iu 


BKAUCHAMPE. 

xay  virtue ;  and  who  that  doubts,  will  scruple  to  approach 
me  as  if  he  knew  that  I  had  none  !  If  I  have  neither  joy 
nor  security  in  life,  why  should  I  live ;  and  if  death  keeps 
us  together,  Beauchampe,  why  should  I  fear  to  die  ?  Should 
I  not  rather  rejoice,  my  husband  ?" 

•'  Ah  !  but  of  that  we  know  nothing.  That  is  the  doubt 
—  the  curse,  Anna  !" 

"  I  do  not  doubt  —  I  can  not.  Our  crime,  if  crime  it  be, 
is  one  —  our  punishment  will  doubtless  be  one  also." 

"  It  were  then  no  punishment.  No,  Anna,  live !  You 
have  friends  who  will  protect  you — who  will  respect  and 
love  you.  There  is  Colonel  Calvert — " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  him,  Beauchampe.  Speak  of  none. 
I  am  resolute  to  share  with  you  the  draught.  We  tread  the 
dai-k  valley  together." 

"  You  shall  not !  It  is  in  my  grasp  —  no  drop  shall  pass 
your  lips.  It  is  enough  for  me  only." 

"  All,  Beauchampe  !  would  you  be  cruel  ?" 

"  Kind  only,  dear  wife.  I  can  not  think  of  you  dying — 
BO  young,  so  beautiful,  and  born  with  such  endowments — 
so  formed  to  shine,  to  bless — " 

"  To  kill  rather  —  to  blight,  Beauchampe  ;  to  darken  the 
days  of  all  whom  I  approach.  This  has  ever  been  my  fate  : 
it  shall  be  so  no  longer.  Beauchampe,  you  can  not  baffle' 
me  in  my  purpose.  See  !  —  even  if  you  refuse  to  share  with 
me  the  poison,  I  have  still  another  resource." 

She  drew  a  knife  from  her  sleeve  and  held  it  up  before 
his  eyes,  but  beyond  the  reach  of  his  arm. 

"  Oh  !  why  will  you  persist  in  this,  my  wife?  Why  make 
these  few  moments,  which  are  left  me,  as  sad  as  they  are 
short  and  fleeting." 

"  I  seek  not  to  do  so,  dear  husband  ;  nor  should  my  reso 
lution  have  this  effect.  Would  you  have  me  live  for  such 
sorrows,  such  indignities,  as  I  have  described  to  you." 

"  You  would  not  suffer  them  !    Give  me  the  knife,  Anna." 

"  No  !  my  husband  !"    She  restored  it  to  her  sleeve.     u  I 


FATAL   PURPOSES.  389 


have  sworn  to  die  with  you,  and  no  powei  on  .artn. 
persuade  me  to  survive." 

"  Not  my  entreaties  —  my  prayers,  Anna!" 

u  No  !      Beauchainpe  !  —  not    even   your  prayers 
change  my  purpose." 

"  Nay,  then,  1  will  call  the  guard  !" 

"And  if  you  do,  Beauchainpe>  the  sound  of  your  ?:>ice 
shall  be  the  signal  for  me  tc  strike.  Believe  me,  husband  , 
1  do  not  speak  id!/  !" 

The  knife  wac  again  withdrawn  from  her  sleeve  as  she 
spoko,  and  the  bared  point  placed  upon  her  bosom. 

u  Put  it  up,  dearest  ;  I  promise  not  to  call.  Put  it  up, 
from  sight.  Believe  me  —  I  will  not  call  !" 

"  Do  not,  Beauchampe  ;  and  do  net,  I  implore  you,  again 
ecek  to  disturb  my  resolution.  Mcvs  me  you  can  not.  I 
have  reached  it  only  by  calmly  considering  what  I  am,  and 
what  would  be  left  me  when  ycu  are  gone.  I  have  seen 
enough  in  this  examination  to  make  me  turn  with  loathing 
from  the  prospect.  I  know  that  it  can  not  be  more  so  be 
hind  the  curtain  :  and  we  will  raise  it  together." 

"  The  assurance,  Anna,  is  sweet  to  my  soul,  but  I  would 
gtii!  implore  you  against  this  resolution.  To  be  undivided 
even  in  death  conveys  a  feeling  to  my  heart  like  rapture, 
and  brings  back  to  it  a  renewed  hope  ;  yet  I  dare  not  think 
of  your  suffering  and  pain.  I  dread  the  idea,  of  death  when 
it  relates  to  you." 

"  Think  rather,  my  husband,  that  I  share  the  hope  and 
the  rapture  of  which  you  speak.  Believe  me  only,  that  i 
joy  also  in  the  conviction  that  in  death  we  shall  not  be 
divided.  The  mere  bitter  of  the  draught  or  the  pain  of  the 
stroke  is  not  worthy  of  a  thought.  The  assurance  _lhat 
there  will  be  no  interruption  m  our  progress  together  — 
that  death,  with  us,  vrul  be  nothing  but  a  joint  setting  forth 
in  company  on  a  new  journey  and  into  another  country  — 
th«.t  ia  worthy  of  every  thought,  and  should  be  the  only 


H90  BEAUCHAMPE. 

"  Ay,  but  that  country,  Anna  ?" 

"  Can  not  be  more  full  of  wo  and  bitter  than  this  hatb 
been  to  us." 

"  It  may  !  I  have  read  somewhere,  my  wife,  a  vivid  de 
scription  of  two  fond  lovers — fondest  among  the  fond  — 
born,  as  it  were,  for  each  other  —  devoted,  as  few  have  beer 
to  one  another ;  who,  by  some  cruel  tyrant  were  thrown 
into  a  dungeon,  arid  ordered  to  perish  by  the  gnawing  pro 
cess  of  hunger.  At  first,  they  smiled  at  such  a  doom.  They 
believed  that  their  tyrant  lacked  ingenuity  in  his  capacity 
for  torture,  for  he  had  left  them  together  /  Together,  they 
were  strong  and  fearless.  Love  made  them  light-hearted 
even  under  restraint ;  and  they  fancied  a  power  of  resist 
ance  in  themselves,  so  united,  to  endure  the  worst  forms  of 
torment.  For  a  few  days  they  did  so.  They  cheereS  each 
other.  They  spoke  the  sweetest,  soothing  words.  Their 
arms  were  linked  in  constant  embrace.  She  hung  upon  his 
neck,  and  he  bore  her  head  upon  his  bosom.  Never  had 
they  spoken  such  sweet  truths  —  such  dear  assurances. 
Never  had  their  tendernesses  been  so  all-compensating. 
Perhaps  they  never  had  been  so  truly  happy  together,  at 
least  for  the  first  brief  day  of  their  confinement.  Their 
passion  had  been  refined  by  severity,  and  had  acquired  new 
vigor  from  the  pressure  put  upon  it.  But  as  the  third  day 
<vaned,  they  ceased  to  link  their  arms  together.  They  re 
coiled  from  the  mutual  embrace.  They  shrunk  apart.  Thcj 
saw  in  each  other's  eyes,  a  something  rather  to  be  feared 
than  loved.  Famine  was  there,  glaring  like  a  wolf.  The 
god  was  transformed  into  a  demon  ;  and  in  another  day 
the  instinct  of  hunger  proved  itself  superior  to  the  magnan 
imous  sentiment  of  love.  The  oppressor  looked  in  on  the 
fourth  day,  through  the  grated-window  upon  his  victims  — 
and  lo  I  the  lips  of  the  man  were  dripping  with  the  blood, 
drawn  from  the  veins  of  his  beloved  one.  His  teeth  were 
clenched  in  her  white  shoulder  :  and  he  grinned  and  growled 


FATAL    PURPObSS.  391 


above  his  unconscious  victim,  even  as  the  tiger,  7thc~>  you 
have  disturbed  ere  ho  has  finished  with  his  prey." 

"  Horrible  !  But  she  submitted  —  she  repined  not.  'Hot 
moans  were  unheard.  .She  sought  not,  in  like  manner,  to 
pacify  the  baser,  beastly  cravings,  at  the  expense  of  him 
she  loved.  Hers  was  love,  Beauchampe  —  his  was  pas 
sion." 

"  Alas  !  my  wife,  what  matters  it  by  what  name  we  seek 
to  establish  a  distinction  between  the  sentiments  and  pas 
sions  ?  In  those  dreadful  extremes  of  situation,  from  which 
our  feeble  nature  recoils,  all  passions  and  sentiments  run 
into  one.  We  love  !  —  Before  Heaven,  my  wife,  I  conscien 
tiously  say,  and  as  conscientiously  believe,  that  I  love  yon 
as  passionately  as  I  can  love,  and  as  truly  as  woman  evar 
was  beloved  by  man.  It  is  not  our  love  that  fails  us,  in  the. 
hour  of  physical  and  mental  torment.  It  is  our  strength 
Thought  and  principle,  truth  and  purity,  are  poor  defences, 
when  the  frame  is  agonized  with  a  torture  beyond  what  na 
ture  was  intended  to  endure.  Then  the  strongest  man  de 
serts  his  faith  and  disavows  his  principles.  Then  the  pares  , 
becomes  profligate,  and  the  truest  dilates  in  falsehood,  it 
is  madness,  not  the  man,  that  speaks.  It  was  madness,  oc* 
the  man,  that  drunk  from  the  blue  veins  of  the  beloved  00$, 
and  clenched  his  dripping  teeth  in  her  soft  white  she-aid^/. 
The  very  superior  strength  of  his  blood,  was  the  cause  of 
his  early  overthrow  of  reflection.  As,  in  this  respect,  aho 
was  the  weaker,  so  her  mind,  and  consequently,  ;he  sweet 
pure  sentiments  which  were  natural  to  her  mind.,  tbe  longest 
maintained  its  and  their  ascendency,  and  preserved  her 
from  the  loathsome  frenzy  to  which  the  a  an  was  driven  t 
Ah,  of  this  future,  dear  wife!  This  awf'il,  unknown  fu 
ture  !  Fancy  some  penal  doom  like  this  —  fancy  some  tiger 
rage  in  mo  —  depriving  me  of  the  reason,  and  the  sentiments 
which  have  maie  rie  love  you,  and  made  me  what  I  an  - 
fancy,  in  place  of  tee  man,  the  frenzied  beast,  raging  in 
hip  bloody  thirst,  rending  in  hio  savage  hunger  --drinking  the 


39'c  BEAUCHAMPE. 

blood  from  tho  beloved  one's  veins  — tearing  the  flesh  from 
her  soft  white  shoulder !  This  thought — this  fear,  Anna — " 

*"  IB  neither  thought  nor  fear  of  mine  !  God  is  good  and 
gracious.  I  am  not  bold  to  believe  in  my  own  purity  of 
hcr.rt,  or  propriety  of  conduct.  I  am  a  sinner,  Beauchampe 
—  a  proud,  stern,  fierce  sinner.  I  feel  that  I  am  —  I  would 
that  I  were  otherwise,  and  I  pray  for  Heaven's  help  to  be 
come  otherwise  —  but,  sinner  as  I  am,  I  neither  fear  nor 
believe,  that  such  penal  dooms  are  reserved  for  any  degree 
of  sin.  Tho  love  of  physical  torture  is  an  attribute  with" 
which  man  has  dressed  the  Deity.  As  such  torture  can  not 
be  human,  so  it  can  not  be  godlike.  I  can  believe  that  we 
iiiay  be  punished  by  privation — by  denial  of  trust — by 
degradation  to  inferior  offices  —  but  it  is  the  brutal  imagi 
nation  that  ascribes  to  God  a  delight  in  brutal  punishments. 
Nowhere  do  we  see  in  nature  such  a  feeling  manifested. 
Life  is  everywhere  a  thing  of  beauty.  Smiles  are  in  heaven, 
sweetness  on  earth,  the  winds  bring  it,  the  airs  breathe  it, 
stars  smile  it,  blossoms  store  and  diffuse  it — man,  alone, 
defaces  and  destroys,  usurps,  vitiates,  and  overthrows.  It 
was  man,  not  God,  who,  in  your  story,  was  the  oppressor. 
He  made  the  prison,  and  thrust  the  victims  into  it.  It  was 
oot  God !  And  shall  God  be  likened  to  such  a  monster  ? 
V^hat  idea  can  we  have  of  the  Deity  to  whom  such  charac 
teristics  are  ascribed  ! — " 

— "  I  go  yet.farther,"  she  added,  after  a  pause.  "  I  do 
not  think,  even  if  our  sins  incur  the  displeasure  of  God,  that 
nis  treatment  of  us,  however  harsh,  will  be  meant  as  pun 
ishment.  That  it  will  be  punishment,  I  doubt  not ;  but  this 
will  be  with  him  a  secondary  consideration.  We  are  his 
subjects,  in  his  world,  employed  to  carry  out  his  various 
purposes,  and  set  to  various  tasks.  Failing  in  these,  we 
are  set  to  such  as  are  inferior  —  perhaps,  not  employed  at 
all,  a»  being  no  longer  worthy  cf  trust.  I  can  not  think  of 
a  severer  moral  infliction.  Where  all  ar?  fcusy  —  triumph 
antly  busy —  pressing  forward  Li  the  glorious  tasks  of  a  life 


FATAL   PURPOSES.  393 

which  is  all  soul  —  to  be  the  only  idle  spirit — d'enied  to 
dhare  in  any  mighty  consummation  —  pitied,  but  abandoned 
oy  the  rest  —  the  proffer  of  service  rejected  —  the  sympathy 
of  joint  action  and  enterprise  denied  —  a  spirit  without 
wings — a  sluggish  personification  of  moral  sloth,  and  that 
too,  in  such  an  empire  as  God's  own — in  his  very  sight — 
millions  speeding  beneath  his  eye  at  his  bidding — all  bid, 
all  chosen,  all  beloved  but  one  !  Ah !  Beauchampe,  to  a 
soul  like  mine  —  so  earnest,  so  ambitious  as  mine  has  been. 
and  is  —  could  there  be  a  worse  doom!" 

"  No,  dearest !  But  the  subject  is  dark,  and  such  specu 
lations  may  be  bold  —  too  bold  !" 

"  Why  ?  Do  I  disparage  God  in  them  ?  Docs  it  not 
seem  that  such  a  future  could  alone  be  worthy  of  such  a 
present — of  such  a  God,  as  has  made  a  world  so  various 
and  so  wondrous-!  mcthinks,  the  disparagement  is  in  him 
who  ascribes  to  the  Deity  such  tastes  and  passions  as  pre 
side  over  the  inquisitions  and  the  thousand  other  plans  of 
mortal  torture,  which  have  made  man  the  hateful  monster 
that  we  so  frequently  mid  him." 

"  Let  us  speak  no  more  of  this,  Anna.    The  subject  star 
ties  inc.     It  is  an  awful  one !" 
'  Hers  was  the  bolder  spirit. 

u  And  should  not  our  thoughts  be  awful  thoughts  ?  What 
other  should  we  have  ?  The  future,  alone,  is  ours — will 
be  ours  in  a  short  time.  A  few  hours  will  bring  us  to  the 
entrance.  A  few  hours  will  lift  the  curtain,  and  the  voics 
that  we  may  not  disobey  will  command  us  to  er/ter.'; 

"  Not  you,  Anna — oh  !  not  you  1  Let  me  brave  it  alone 
I  can  not  bear  to  think  that  you  too  should  be  cut  off  in 
your  youth  —  with  all  that  vigorous  mind— that  beauty — 
that  noble  heart  —  all  crushed,  blighted — now,  wheo  bloom 
ing  brightest—  buried  in  the  dust — no  more  to  speaa;,  cr 
sing,  or  feel.' 

"  But  they  do  not  perish,  Beauchampe^  I  might  grow 
coward  — !_  might  cling  to  this  life  —  could  I  fancy  there 


394  BEAUCHAMPE. 

were  no* other.  But  this  faith  is  one  of  ciy  strongest  con 
victions.  It  is  an  instinct.  No  reasoning  will  reach  the 
point  and  establish  it,  if  the  feeling  be  not  in  our  heart  of 
hearts.  I  know  that  I  can  not  perish  quite.  I  know  that 
I  must  live  ;  and  that  poison -draught,  or  the  thrust  of  tin? 
sudden  knife,  I  regard  as  the  plunge  which  one  makes, 
crossing  a  frail  trembling  bridge,  or  hurrying  through  some 
dark  and  narrow  passage.  Do  not  waste  tho  moments, 
which  are  so  precious,  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  dissuade  me 
from  a  sworn  and  settled  purpose.  Beauchampe,  we  die 
together !" 

"  Lie  down  by  me,  Anna.  You  should  sleep — you  are 
fatigued.  You  must  be  weary." 

"  No !  I  am  not  weary.  At  such  moments  as  these  we 
become  all  soul.  We  do  not  need  sleep.  With  tho  passage 
of  this  night  we  shall  never  need  it  again.  Think  of  that, 
Beauchampe  !  What  a  thought  it  is." 

"  Terrible  !" 

"  Glorious,  rather !  Sleep  was  God's  gift  to  an  animal 
— to  restore  limbs  that  could  be  wearied — to  refresh  spir 
its  that  could  be  dull !  What  a  godlike  feeling  to  know 
that  we  should  need  it  no  longer!  —  no  more  yawning — no 
more  drowsiness  —  and  that  feebleness  and  blindness,  which, 
without  any  of  the  securities  of  death,  has  all  of  its  incom 
petencies  —  when  the  merest  coward  might  bind,  and  the 
commonest  ruffian  abuse,  and  trample  on  us.  Ah  !  the  im 
munities  of  death  !  kHow  numerous — how  great!  What 
blindness  to  talk  of  its  terrors — to  shrink  from  its  glorious 
privileges  of  unimpeded  space  —  of  undiininishing  time, 
Already,  Beauchampe,  it  seems  tD  me  as  if  my  wings  are 
growing.  I  fancy  I  should  not  feel  any  hurt  from  the 
knife  —  perhaps,  not  even  taste  the  poison  on  my  lipe." 

"  Sit  by  iae.  at  ieast>  if  you  will  not  sleep,  Anna." 

" I  will  sit  by  you,  Beauchampe — nay,  I  wish  to  do  so; 
but  you  must  promts  not  to  attempt  to  dispossess  me  of  the 
knife.  I  puspeci  you,  my 


FATAL    PURPOSES.  396 

"  Why  suspect  me  ?" 

"  I  perceive  it  in  the  tones  of  your  voice :  I  koc77  what 
you  intend.  But,  believe  me,  I  have  taken  my  resolution 
from  which  nothing  will  move  me.  Even  were  you  now  to 
deprive  me  of  the  weapon,  nothing  would  keep  me  from  it 
long.  I  should  follow  you  soon,  my  husband  ;  and  the  only 
effect  of  present  denial  would  be  to  deprive  me  of  the  pleas 
ure  of  dying  with  you  !" 

"  Come  to  me,  my  wife !  I  will  not  attempt  to  disarm 
you.  I  promise  you." 

"  On  your  love,  Bcauchampe  ?" 

"  With  my  full  heart,  dearest.  You  shall  die  with  me. 
It  will  be  a  sweet  moment  instead  of  a  bitter  one.  For 
your  sake  only,  my  wife,  would  I  have  disarmed  you  — 
but  my  selfish  desires  triumph.  I  will  no  longer  oppose 
you." 

"Thanks  — thanks!" 

She  sprang  to  him,  and  clung  to  his  embrace. 

"  Will  you  sleep  ?"  he  asked,  as  her  head  seemed  to  sink 
upon  his  bosom. 

"No,  no!  I  had  not  thought  of  that!  I  thought  only 
of  the  moment  —  the  moment  when  wo  should  leave  this 
prison." 

"  Leave  it  ?" 

"By  death!  I  am  tired,  very  tired,  of  these  walls  — 
these  walls  of  life  —  that  keep  us  in  bonds  —  put  us  at  the 
mercy  of  the  false  and  the  cruel,  the  base  and  the  mali 
cious  !  Oh,  my  husband,  we  have  tried  them  long  enough  !" 

"  There  is  time  enough  !"  he  said.  "  I  would  see  the 
daylight  once  more." 

"  You  can  only  see  it  through  those  bars." 

"  Still,  I  would  see  it.  We  can  free  ourselves  a  monies* 
after." 

Even  while  thay  spoke  together,  Beauchampe  sunk  into 
a  pleasant  slumber.  She  pillowed  his  head  upcn  her  bo- 
som,  but  had  no  feeling  or  thought  of  sleep.  Through  the 


396  BEATirtTAMPE. 

grated  -window  she  saw  a  fc\v  flitting  stars.  One  by  one, 
thev  came  into  her  sphere  of  vision,  gleamed  a  little  while, 
and  passed,  like  the  bright,  spiritual  eyes  of  the  departed 
deaf  ones.  When  she  ceased  to  behold  them,  then  she 
knew  that  the  day  was  at  hand  ;  and  the  interval  of  time 
between  the  disappearance  of  the  stars  and  the  approach 
of  dawn,  though  brief,  was  dark. 

"  Such,"  she  mused,  '•  will  Ce  that  brief  period  of  transi 
tion,  when,  passing  from  the  dim,  deceptive  starlight  of  this 
life,  we  cuter  into  the  perfect  day.  That  will  be  momenta 
rily  dark,  perhaps.  It  must  be.  There  may  be  a  state 
of  childhood  —  an  imperfect  consciousness  of  the  things 
around  us  —  of  our  own  wants  —  and  among  these,  possi 
bly,  a  lack  of  utterance.  Strange,  indeed,  that  the  inevi 
table  should  still  be  the  inscrutable !  But  of  what  use  the 
details?  The  great  fact  is  clear  to  me.  Even  now  things" 
ure  becoming  clearer  while  1  gaze.  My  whole  soul  seems 
to  be  one  great  thought!  How  strange  that  he  should 
sleep  —  so  soundly,  too-- -so  like  an  infant!  Ue  does  not 
fear  death,  that  is  certain  :  but  he  loves  life.  T,  too,  love 
life,  but  it  is  not  this.  Oh,  of  that  other!  Could  I  get 
some  glimpses  —  but  this  is  childish!  I  shall  see  it  all 
very  soon !" 

•  Beauchampe  slept  late ;  and,  bearing  his  head  still  on 
her  bosom,  the  sleepless  wife  did  not  seek  to  awaken  him. 
Through  the  intensity  of  her  thought,  she  acquired  an 
entire  independence  of  bodily  infirmities.  .The  physical 
nature,  completely  controlled  by  the  spiritual,. was  passive 
at  her  mood.  But  the  soundness  of  Bcauchampc's  sleep 
continued,  as  it  was,  after  day  had  fairly  dawned,  awakened 
her  suspicions.  She  searched  for  the  vial  of  laudanum 
where  she  had  seen  .him  place  it.  It  was  no  longer  there. 
She  found  it  beside  him  on  the  couch  —  it  was  empty! 

But  his  breathing-  was  not  suspended.  His  sleep  was 
natural,  and,  while  she  anxiously  bent  over  him  in  doubt 
whether  to  strike  at  once,  or  wait  to  see  what  further  effects 


FATAL    PURPOSES.  397 

might  l)e  produced  on  him  by  the  potion,  he  awakened. 
His  first  words  at  awakening  betrayed  the  still  superior 
feelings  of  attachment  with  which  he  regarded  her.  His 
voice  was  that  of  exultation:  — 

"It  is  over — and  we  are  still  together!  We  are  not 
divided  !" 

u  No  !  but  the  hour  is  at  hand  !" 

"  What  mean  you,  my  love  ?  I  have  swallowed  the 
laudanum  !  — where  am  I  ?" 

His  question  was  answered  as  his  eyes  encountered  the 
bleak  walls  of  his  dungeon,  and  beheld  the  light  through 
the  iron  bars  of  his  window. 

"  God  !  the  poison  has  failed  of  its  effect !" 

His  look  was  that  of  consternation.  Her  glance  and 
words  reassured  him. 

"  We  have  still  the  knife,  my  husband !" 

"  Ah !  we  shall  defeat  them  still !" 


398 


y 


CHAPTER   XL. 

LAST   WORDS. 

"  ON  the  morning  of  the  fifth  of  June,  eighteen  band  red 
and  twenty-six,"  says  the  chronicle,  "  the  drums  were  heard 
beating  in  the  streets  of  Frankfort,  and  a  vast  multitude 
was  hurrying  toward  the  gibbet,  which  was  erected  OE  a 
hill  without  the  town." 

At  the  sound  of  this  ominous  music,  and  the  clamors  of 
that  hurrying  multitude,  Beauchampe  smiled  sadly. 

"  Strange,  that  men  should  delight  in  such  a  spectacle  — 
the  cruel  death,  the  miserable  exposure,  of  a  fellow-man  ! 
—  that  they  should  look  on  his  writhings,  his  distortions, 
his  shame  and  pain,  with  composure  and  desire  !  '  L  trill 
be  cruel  to  disappoint  them,  Anna!  "Will  it  not  ?" 

"  I  think  not  of  them,  my  husband.  Oh,  my  husband, 
could  we  crowd  the  few  remaining  moments  with  thoughts 
of  goodness,  with  prayers  of  penitence  !  Oh,  that  I  had 
not  urged  you  to  the  death  of  Stevens!" 

"  It  was  right  !"  he  answered  sternly.  "  I  tell  you,  Anna, 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  Kentucky  will  bless  the  name 
of  Beauchampe  !" 

"They  should,  my  husband,  for  your  blow  lias  saved 
many  from  shame  and  suffering  —  has  terrified  many  a 
;  *rong-doer  from  his  purpose.  But,  though  right  in  you 
to  strike,  I  feel  that  jt  was  wrong  in  me  to  counsel." 

"  That  can  not  be  !  Do  not  speak  thus,  my  wife.  Let 
not  our  last  moments  be  embittered  by  reproach.  Let  us 


LAST    WORDS.  399 

die  in  prayer  rather.     Hark!   1  hear  visitors  —  voices  — 
some  one  approaches !" 

(<  It  is  William  rlinkley  !''  she  exclaimed. 

The  guard  was  heard  about  to  remove  the  trap-door. 
Beauchampe  looked  up,  and,  a  moment  after,  he  heard 
bfs  wife,  sigh  deeply.  She  then  spoke  to  him,  faintly  but 
quickly  :  "  Take  it,  my  husband  !  It  is  not  painful." 

He  turned  to  her,  while  a  sudden  coldness  seized  upon 
his  heart.  She  presented  him  the  knife. 

"  Have  you  struck  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  husky  whisper.  The 
wet  blade  of  the  knife,  already  clotty  with  the  coagulating 
blood,  answered  his  question. 

"  Take  me  in  your  arms  —  quickly,  quickly,  dear  husband 
—  do  not  leave  me !  I  lose  you  — oh,  I  lose  you !" 

.  "  No,  never !  I  come  !     I  am  with  you.     Nothing  shall 
part  us.     This  unites  us  for  ever!" 

And,  with  the  words,  he  struck  the  fatal  blow,  laid  his 
lips  on  hers,  and  covered  her  and  himself  with  the  blanket. 

"  This  is  sweet !"  she  murmured.  "  I  feel  you,  but  I  can 
not  see  you,  husband.  Who  is  it  comes  ?" 

"  Calvert !" 

The  young  man  descended  a  moment  after.  His  appre 
hensions  were  realized.  Margaret  Cooper  was  dying  — 
dyiug  by  her  own  hands. 

"  Was  this  well  done,  Margaret  ?"  he  asked  reproachfully. 

"  Ay,  William,"  she  answered  firmly,  but  in  feeble  tones. 
"  It  was  well  done  !     It  could  not  be  otherwise,  and  I  find 
dying  sweeter  than  living.     You  will  forgive  me,  William  ?" 
' :t  But  God,  Margaret  ?— " 

"Ah!  pray  for  me  —  pray  for  me!  —  Husband  — !  am 
losing  you.  I  feel  you  not.  This  is  death !  —  it  was  for 
me  —  it  waa  all  for  me  !  0  Beauchampe ! — " 

"  She  is  gone  !"  cried  the  husband. 

Calvert,  who  had  assisted  to  support  her,  now  laid  the 
inanimate  form  softly  upon  the  couch.  lie  was  dumb.  But 
the  cry  of  "Boanchampe  had  drawn  the  attention  of  the  guard 


100  BEAUCHAMPE. 

u  What  is  this  —  what's  the  matter?"  he  demanded. 

"Ha!  ha!  we  laugh  at  you  —  we  defy  you!"  was  th£ 
exclamation  of  rcnuehainpe,  holding  wp  the  bloody  knife 
with  which  he  had  inflicted  upon  himself  a  second  wcund. 
We  have  slain  ourselves." 

"  God  forbid !"  cried  the  officer,  wresting  the  *eape-n 
from  the  hands  of  the  criminal. 

ki  You  are  too 'late,  my  friend  :  we  shall  spoil  your  sport. 
You  shall  enjoy  no  public  agonies  of  mine  to-day." 

They  brought  relief — surgical  help  —  stimulants,  and 
bandages.  They  succored  the  fainting  man,  cruelly  kind, 
in  order  that  the  stern  sentence  of  the  laws  might  be  car 
ried  into  effect.  The  hour  of  execution,  meanwhile,  had 
arrived.  They  brought  him  forth  in  the  sight  of  the  as 
sembled  crowd.  The  fresh  air  revived  the  dying  man  — 
awakening  him  into  full  but  momentary  consciousness.  He 
looked  up,  and  beheld  where  the  windows  of  some  of  the 
neighboring  houses  were  filled  with  female  forms.  He 
lifted  his  hands  to  them  with  a  graceful  but  last  effort, 
while  he  murmured  :— 

"Daughters  of  Kentucky  !•  you,  at  least,  will  bless  the 
name  of  Beauehampe ! — " 

This  was  all.  He  then  sunk  back,  as  they  strove  to  lift 
liim  into  the  cart.  Before  his  feet  had  pressed  the  felon- 
vehicle,  his  eyes  closed.  He  was  unconscious  of  the  rest. 
Earth  and  its  little  life  was  nothing  more  to  him.  He  had 
.also  passed  behind  the  curtain  ! 

And  here  oar  narrative  might  fitly  end.  Wo  have  dis 
posed  of  those  parties  whose  superior  trials  and  struggles 
constituted  tho  chief  interest  of  our  story.  But  custom 
requires  something  more ;  and  the  curiosity  of  the  reader 
naturally  seeks  to  kno^v  Vnat  of  the  fortunes  of  the  subor 
dinates —  such  of  the  minor  persons  of  the  drama  as,  by 
their  virtues  and  good  conduct,  have  established  a  claim 
upon  our  regards.  We,  perhup?,  need  to  know  whether 


LAST    WORDS.  401 

Ned  Ilinklcy,  for  example,  found  hia  compensative  happi 
ness —  as  he  proposed  it  to  himself — in  the  affections  of  the 
fair,  simple  Sallie  Bernard,  who  had  so  much  commended 
herself  to  his  love  by  forbearing  all  "  strong-minded*'  dem 
onstrations.  Well,  we  may  satisfy  this  curiosity.  Ned 
and  Sallie  are  still  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  life  and  a  vig 
orous  old  age,  with  troops  of  young  Neds  and  Sallies  about 
them.  We  are  persuaded  that  neither  of  th£m  regrets  or 
repents  the  union  which  they  formed  upon  such  moderate 
expectations  of  what  was  due  to  each  other  and  the  public. 
As  they  did  not  marry  to  please  the  public,  so  have  they 
proved  themselves  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  simple  duty 
of  pleasing  one  another. 

Of  the  mother  of  Margaret  Cooper,  the  mother  of  Beau- 
champe,  and  his  sisters,  we  know  nothing.  They  wisely 
sheltered  their  bleeding  hearts  in  obscurity. 

Old  Ilinkley'and  his  wife,  the  parents  of  William  Cul 
vert,  returned  from  Mississippi  to  Kentucky,  where  they 
were  living,  at  last  advices,  with  their  son.  The  success 
ful  career  of  the  latter  lias,  singukuly  enough,  persuaded 
the  old  man  to  believe  that  William's  religion  was  not, 
after  all,  of  so  doubtful  a  character.  His  own  devotions 
are  maintained  with  the  tenacity  of  his  nature ;  but,  as  he 
is  satisfied  that  God  approves  the  virtues  whenever  he  helps 
the  fortunes  of  the  subject — a  notion  which  is  exceedingly 
current  among  the  Pharisaical,  whose  self-esteem  is  the 
chief  guardian  of  their  religion,  and  perhaps  its  only  foe  — 
so  he  teaves  his  son  to  settle  his  own  account  with  the  Deity, 
conienifiig  himself  with  an  unusually  long  grace  at  table, 
and  a,  frequent  voluntary  prayer  for  grace  before  the  family 
retires  for  the  night. 

The  good  old  schoolmaster,  who  could  not  be  lawyer  or 
politician,  though  with  ambition  and  endowment  enough  for 
^»C'.h,  has  been  gathered  to  his  fathers.  He  had  reached 
I  he  rips  old  age  of  eighty-one  before  he  yielded  to  the  sa 
cred  slumber.  He  subsided  from  life,  as  the  withered  leaf 


402  BEAUCHAMPE. 

drops  from  the  tree  in  autumn,  without  an  effort  or  strug 
gle.  lie  died  #hile  he  slept,  and  no  doubt  in  a  swee* 
dream,  and  with  the  far-off  sounds  of  angelic  music  in  his 
$2,r^,  full  of  welcome  and  rejoicing.  He  was  at  peace  with 
the  world.  His  last  days  were  cheered  by  affectionate 
sforej  and  the  most  loving  solicitude.  All  that  he  beheld 
and  beard  was  grateful  to  his  matured  thoughts  and  his 
innocent  desires.  His  pride  was  unselfish,  like  his  hopes. 
It  was  all  grounded  in  the  prosperity  of  another ! 
'  And  that  other  ?— 

William  Calvert  continued  to  prosper.  lie  never  mar 
ried.  He  still  lives,  in  a  green  and  vigorous  old  age,  in 
the  midst  of  a  noble  estate,  the  fruit  of  his  own  well-applied 
industry  and  honorable  energies.  He  concentrated  all  his 
talents  upon  his  profession,  and  his  profession  made  him 
prosperous  in  turn.  His  one  experiment  in  politics  satis 
fied  all  his  desires  in  that  direction.  For  ever  after,  he 
steadily  refused  all  connection  with  political  life.  He  was 
wont  to  say  that  the  sacrifice  was  quite  too  great  for  so 
small  an  object ;  and  that,  while  politics  in  a  democracy 
were  admirably  calculated  to  intoxicate  and  stimulate  vani 
ty,  they  furnished  very  unwholesome  and  unsatisfactory  food 
for  any  real,  craving,  honest  ambition.  And  he  was  right. 
He  still  lives — lives,  as  we  have  said,  a  bachelor — with 
lofty  frame,  erect  carriage,  fair,  round  face,  benevolent 
heart,  and  a  calm,  sedate  mind,  always  equal  to  the  occa 
sion,  and  seeking  after  nothing  more.  His  affections  were 
true  to  his  first  and  only  love ;  and  sometimes,  as  if  speak 
ing  to  himself  rather  than  those  about  him,  he  will  mention 
the  name  of  Margaret  Cooper.  This  will  be  followed  by  a 
deep  sigh  ;  and  then,  as  if  suddenly  remembering  himself,  he 
will  hurry  out  of  the  apartment,  and  seek  refuge  in  his  own. 

And  thus  he  still  lives,  in  waiting — and  in  hope! 

Let  us  drop  the  curtain. 


T  (I  F,     R  \  0. 


r. 


\ 


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